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MISS GARDNER'S NOVELS. 



NEW EDITIONS JUST PUBLISHED. 



1. STOLEN WATERS— " Stolen Waters are Sw»et "$1.60 

2. BROKEN DREAMS— A Novel in Verse 1.60 

3. TESTED— A Story of Woman's Constancy 1.50 

4. RICH MED WAY'S TWO LOVES 1.50 

5. AWOM.\N'S WILES 1.50 

6. TERRACE ROSES 1.60 

7. COMPENSATION -A Story in Verse., 1.60 

8. A TWISTED SKEIN A Story in Verse 1,60 

8.SERAPH-0R MORTAL.-tyw) 1J60 



Sent FBKB by mail, on receipt of price, by 
G W DILLINGHAM, PUBLISHER, 

SUCCESSOB TO 

G. W. CARLETON & CO., New York. 



Stolen Waters 



BT 



OELIA E. GARDNER. 



Pbovbkw, IB. a^ 



^. 



NEW YORK: 

G. PF. DilliiigluDu, Ptiblisher, 

Successor to G. W. Carleton »S: Co. 

london : s. low, son & co. 

MDCCCLXxxyin. 






•orawding t» Act of CkxigroM, m tke fw IfTl, ty 
Q. W, CARLETON t CO., 
In tlM OAoe <^ th« libcRTJua of Cooktcm. at WMhiaffM* 



'•tVivV:/*:-../...* 



TO ONB 

WHO HAS PROVED 

AT ALL TIMES I'HAT HE If 

«■ DBABEBT, THE NOBLEST, THE rKUBlV, 

WITH THE GRATITUDE, LOVE, AND BgrOfiM 

OF A HKABT THAT HAS YET NEVER KNOWN 8WEET1-R DREAMS 

THAN THOHH HE HAS FILLED, AND WHOSE PRAYER IS, WHEN DEATH 

gHALL HAVE STILLED OUR HEARTS' OURUENT WITH HIS ICY BRVAt^ 

WB MAY CTAND WITH EACH OTHER BEFORE THE WHITE THBONB, 

DP HIM UNTO WHOM ALL HEART-SKCRi<:TS ARE KNOWN, 

WHO, TEMPFED IN ALL POINTS AS WE ARE, LOOKS DOWN 

•r 
WITH COMPASSION DIVINE, AS HE STUDS OUR BRIQHT CROWNS 

WITH A GEM FOR EACH CROSS WE ENDURF^ WHILE WB WATT 

rOR THE SUMMONS THAT COMETB 1X> ALL, SOON OR LATB. 

THUS GRATEFUL, AND HOPEFUL, I TEUS WORK TO TBBB 

OOmSCHATBl PROUD TO SIGN MYSELF 



o. a. % 

571, 



PRELUDE 



lOU who never have loved — you who nevor wwre trifld, 
Lay this volume, without a perusal, aside I 
Should yon reiul it, you'd tind much to shock preoonoelToi 
Ideas of what should luid what should not be. 
You would find no perfection of character here ; 
Only weak human nature— the hopes and the fean 
Of a heart, if undisciplined, loving and true ; 
Temptations resistiid, and yielded unto ; 
And the tale of a love far beyond estimation, 
All potent, in doubt or in reahzation. 



I claim for my heroine, nothing I except 
Her humanity. Yet from the reader expect 
The remembrnnce that this is a Journal, wherein 
She confides all her secrets ; some which would have 
Most carefully, jealously guarded, 'tis j)lain, 
From the world. For my hero, your honor^ I claim. 
For my work, ask that your criticism be mild, 
BeooUecting, in authorship, I'm but a child. 



Sev'ral similar cases to this having come 
Under my observation, when there has been done 
By the world much injustice to those who have proved 
In the end, although human, botli earnest and tma, 
Three UUngt it has been my endeavor to ahow ; 



^iii PRELUDE. 

And lest I have failed in portraying ttem lo 
That they may be discerned, — like an artist I know, 
Who writei o'er the landscape he paints, " Thew are treei 
Bo I o'er my work write the points, which are these : — 

First! That no one can tell what they'll do 'till they're 
Must in like circumstances be placed to decide. 
That those the most strong in asserting their own 
Immacnlateness are most often the ones, 
Not alone to be tried in that special respeot, 
Bat to yield to the offered temptation when met. 

geeond/ That it is possible^ for e'en a love 
That's forbidden — impassioned and earnest abore 
All expression, to be not alone true but pure. 
And that love without marriage not always enaoree 
Oriminality for those who to it succumb. 
And that a true love can but act upon one 
Beneficially, and a refiner become. 

And third ! That though conscience and ptindple maj 
^or a time be crushed down, in the end their full sway 
They'll resums, and accomplish what naught else oonld Ia 
Aad with thia prelude brief, I my work leave with joo. 




STOLEN WATERS. 
420 ELCaiMtol Street. 

PART FIRST. 



* Bweet are stolen waters 1 pleaaant is the bf«id 
Ib secret eaten." 



tomooL. 



'And thns, unnoticed and apart, 
And more by accident than choice, 
I listened to that single voice. 
Until the chambers of my heart 
Van filled with it by night and daj.** 




Stolen Waters. 



$8rt ^itnt 



NEW YORK. 



November 2d, 1862. 

SUNDAY. 

Mt dear little Journal I bo fresh, white, and new, 
I haye seated myself for a short chat with you, 
And to tell you where I have been passing the eve, 
If you will but listen, and give me the leave. 
Annie called here to-night, and desired me to go 
To the new church but just dedicated ; and so 
I donned cloak and furs, hat and boots and went forth. 
Twas cold, too ! the wind blew direct from the north, 
Twas but a short distance, we soon reached the place, 
And passed in with devout hearts and reverent pace. 
Twas lovely 1 b^it I am too weary, to-night, 
To describe in detail all the music and light, 
Boffc carpets, rich carving, the Organ so grand, 



12 STOLEN WATERS. 

The tablets containing our Lord's ten commands, 

And all that. But perhaps I may some other time 

Describe all to you, even to the belPs chime. 

To tell you the truth, my dear Journal, my thoughti 

In vain sought to rise above earth, as they ought. 

I seemed to be dreaming, or under a spell, 

And which one it was I can yet hardly tell , 

For a mouth wreathed with smiles I could see but too nesTi 

And a voice full of melody burst on my ear ; 

For he sang as he smiled, and his dark, lustrous eyee,, 

Seemed reading my soul ; and I found with surprise 

That my cheeks burned with blushes, my eyes sought thf 

ground, 
The blood rushed through my veins with tumultuous bound. 
Everything was forgotten — time also, and place ; 
I heard but one voice, and I saw but one face. 
This strange fascination continued complete 
Till the service was over, and I in the street, 
When the cool, bracing wind fanned my feverish cheek, 
Subdued its deep flush, and unnatural heat. 
And calmly the blood coursed once more thro' my TeinBy 
And I my own stoical self soon became. 
What was it affected me thus, there to-night? 
I have heard people talking of " Love at first sight.'' 
Was it love for a stranger that sent such a thrill 
Through my frame, 'till my very heart seemed to stand stOl f 
Was it love for a stranger ? No I that cannot be ; 
We oft hear of such things, but who'd thini it of me? 
I, who have so many known — flirted so long. 
To yield now, to a voice I've heard only in song ? 
Think of my proud, high spirit subdued by a smile, 
4 glaooe from soft eyes. Call it consummate gnile^ 



STOLEN WATERIS. 11 

Call it music's enchantment, the pressure of light- 
Call it sorcery, witchcraft, or aught that you like. 
That so deeply impressed me at service to-n.ight, 
But d<nCt say I'm in love with a man at first sl^Ht \ 
I hope I am not so susceptible, quite 1 



FthrwMy \bt\ 1863. 

SUITDAT. 

Well, my father at length has engaged a nice pew 
In the handsome new church which is almost in view, 
And henceforth, 1 suppose, we shall worship within 
Those walls that were never polluted by sin. 
That beautiful temple, so rich, yet so plain. 
With large, Gothic windows through whose di'mond pancM 
The softened light streams with subdued, mellow ray, 
O'er the worshippers therein assembled to pray ; 
The wails faintly tinted, but unadorned still 
By the chisel of sculptor or artist's fine skill ; 
The seats softly cushioned with green, and the floor 
With carpets like Nature's own verdure laid o'er, 
The pulpit of chestnut, green-carpeted stairs. 
Rich books, velvet cushions, and sofa, and chairs, 
J ust below it the table, on which there is spread. 
On the first of each month the wine holy and bread, 
On service of silver ; and in the background 
Stands their beautiful organ, from which such s^veet souiuif 
Of melody float, you might fancy, almost, 
That you were surroun ied by Heav'n's shining host, 



14 STOLEN WATEm. 

And think you were list'ning to harps of the blest, 

WThose strings by the hands of bright angels are pressedi 

So rich, so sublime, so mellifluous, sweet. 

Now far off, low and faint, and then nearer and deepi 

*Till its thunders arouse from its lethargic sleep 

My ravished, entranced soul. Then, at the right hand, 

Gothic tablets, engraved with our Lord's ten commands ; 

At the left is the choir ; a small, Gothic alcove, 

Its darkness dispelled by dim lights from above, 

While in the background, 'graved in letters of gold. 

Are extracts from the Psalms of King David of old. 

Our seat's near the choir — O I I must not forget 

To tell you, my Journal, the choir's a quartette. 

Well I in that lovely place we have worshipped to-day. 

Arose when they sang, bowed the head when they prayed. 

There I saw, too, a face I had seen once before, 

Heard the same voice, with melody sweet gushing o'er, 

Saw the lips, too, en wreathed with the same witching smiley 

The eyes, merry glances thrown downward the while. 

But his glances and smiles were all powerless, to-day, 

I looked at him coldly, turned calmly away, 

My heart beat no faster, no flush dyed my cheek. 

But his voice ! — oh, it was, indeed, wondrously sweet, 

And I eagerly listened, as under a spell 

As each note orv my ravished ear then rose and felL 

The singers were all good, but he was subhme. 

But 'twas the soft witch'ry of music, this time : 

The charm which e'er dwells in harmonious sound, 

Not love for the man which now held Tie spell-bound. 

Indeed I as to-day I looked into his eyes, 

[ covdd not but think with a wondering surprise 

Df the spell he cast over me, when our eyes met 



STOLEN VATERS, > II 

A. few weeks ago, for the first dme ; and yet, 

ft \io(M passing strange what overcame me that nigkt, 

CTnless 'twas the heat and the strong press of light. 

Vi liatever it was, I am firmly convinced 

h.t had nothing at all to do with it ! And, since 

Tt was not what I feared that it might be, that night, 

J will have no more faith in this " love at first sight." 



Msnreh Ui, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

When I drew up the blind, somewhat early this mon, 
I found there had been quite a heavy snow-storm. 
And when it was church time, I hardly could tell 
If 'twas best to go out or to stay at home. "Well ! 
Did not much like remaining within doors, all day, 
So I donned rubber-boots, and we started away; 
And when we soon after arrived at the church 
Mr. Tenor was standing right there in the porch. 
His glances at me were quite earnest, and I 
Looked closely 8t him, too, while passing him by. 
So you see, my dear Journal, I had a fair view 
Of this wonderful (?) man, and this fine singer, too. 
I suppose you would like a description of him, 
I have told you so much of him. Well I to begin, 
He waa not very formidable after all! 
He is neither quite short, nor is he very talL 
His shoulders are wide, and you'd feel you could rest 
Safe ihaltered from harm on his broad, manly Inmuit 



16 STOLEN WATERia. 

Dark hair, soft, dark eyes, and a mouth paaeiiig Bweet| 

Soft mustaches and whiskers shade both lip and cheek. 

Hands white and well-shaped, moderately small feet, 

You have now, my Journal, his picture complete. 

Now if this noble gentleman only just knew 

\Vhat a flattering description I've given to yara, 

Of his exquisite singing, his fine manly grace, 

His smiles and his glances, his form and his face, 

What would he say to it ? But that ne'er will be ! 

1 can say what I please, my dear Journal, to " thee," 

Tell you all of my secrets, and ne'er have a fear 

That you'll ever disclose aught that I whisper here 

But, dear me I what a soft little goosey I am. 

To be thinking so much of a quite unknown man ! 

But I told you about him, upon that first night 

When I " fell in love (?)" with him, you know, at first dghi 

I mean, therefore, to tell you henceforth all I know 

Of him who's of late interested me so. 

But to tell you the truth, perhaps I've over-drawn 

My fair picture of him ; for a calm looker-on 

Might not, perhaps, call strictly handsome his face ; 

But his smile, and his grand, indescribable grace, 

Which once made me forgetful of both time and plAMg 

Are more charming by far than mere beauty of 



tTOLEN WATEBa. VI 

Ma/rck 22d, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

WaU i another brief week has passed swiftly along, 
And. another sweet Sabbath is now nearly gone. 
And to service of course I again went to-day — 
Twould take strong inducements to keep me awaj, 
For a Sunday at home I can never endure — 
A stormy one even — and so I am sure 
There's nothing that scarcely could tempt me to stay 
From church upon such a magnificent day 
As this one has been. It was lovely as one 
Could desire to behold ; for the glorious sun, 
In unrivalled splendor, shone all the day through ; 
The sky was one vast arch of unclouded blue ; 
£ach twig, bush, and tree were a-glitter with ice, 
And the pavement as well, which was not quite so nios^ 
For many unlucky pedestrians met 
A fall on the sidewalk so slipp'ry and wet. 
The new-fallen snow, with a pure, dazzling sheet 
Of white, covered tree-top, and house-top, and street ; 
Ard sleigh after sleigh-load dashed swiftly along, 
And before one could fairly behold them, were gone ; 
And the tinkle of bells on the listening ear. 
Fell with musical murmur so merry and clear. 
The whole scene was charming ! but soon we passed in 
From the splen<|[^r without to the beauty within. 
Already, the ofgan^e deep, exquisite notes. 
All through the vast edifice solemnly floats. 



18 STOLEN WATERS. 

The wliole congregation is silent as death, 

And I listen entranced, and almost catch my breath, 

As the tones of the singers, so thrillingly sweet, 

Join the organ's, and render the charm quite complete^ 

What, think you, cared I then that a bright Bmiling Cmm 

Was beaming on me from the usual place, 

And a pair of soft eyes looking into my own ? 

E saw nothing, heard naught but the musical tones 

Of the voices I've learned to, of late, love so well, 

And that ever bewitch me more than I can telL 

But when next they arose the enchantment was o'e?, 

And I then could look into his fine face once more ; 

But he so intently gazed into my eyes. 

That, in spite of myself, I could feel the blood rise 

To my face, and I knew he had found he could call 

A warm flush to my cheek, notwithstanding, too, all 

My cold looks, and his glances indifferently met, 

And the smiles that are haunting me, too, even yet. 



July 6th, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Well I yesterday was the grand " Fourth of Julji" 
Our national holiday. Gert.-ude and I 
Went out to my brother's, and ppent the whole day 
In the cool, verdant country, so quiet ; away 
From the heat of the city, the dust and the din 
Which prevails from the time that the " Fourth's " ushered 1% 
By the booming salute in the sweet early mom, 
*I\U the hour of midnight proclaims the day gone. 



STOLEN WATERB. 1« 

We 2)as8ed the day quietly, pleasantly, then 

At evening came back to the city again. 

I felt this A.M. just a little fatigued, 

But to church went as usual, my ** Unknown " to see. 

1 saw hiray and the smiles, too, that brightened his face, 

Afl I my seat took iu the usual place. 

Oh, dear ! T would much like to know what's his name, 

But yet, what is the use ? 'Tis of course all the same, 

The gentleman nothing at all is to me. 

And what is more still, never will, or can be. 

I presume, did I know him quite intimately, 

I'd think no more of him than of others I see ; 

'Tis the myst'ry that charms me, and if that was o'er 

I'm convinced I should think of the man never more, 

I know 'tis a mere passing fancy, and yet 

It seems to be one I'm not like to forget, 

At least very soon, — while I sit in the seat 

Which I now do in church. 

'Twould be gladness compleU) 
It sometimes seems to me, if I only could rest 
For one single moment upon his broad breast. 
Could but around me have the clasp of his arm. 
And know that he'd shield me from every harm. 
But what am I thinking of? How could I write 
Such words as these Pve written herein to-night ? 
Yet I read in a fine modem author, to-day, 
** There is not a true woman but what longs to hiy 
Her head on the fond loving breast of a man. 
And see in his eyes the one look that he can 
Give to no one else in the whole world," And so, why, 
If the man truth was speaking, oh ! then, wliy should 1^ 



90 8T0LEN WATJSS& 

A.S I Bit here this evening, in silence, alone. 

Hesitate to write what not an eye bub my own 

Does now or will ever behold ? Why, I say, 

If that be the case, should I blush to obey 

The wise laws of nature, which prove me to be 

A. true woman according to his theory ? 

But I'm weary, and sleepy as well ; and the light 

Flickers so that I scarcely can see now to write. 

The gas must be poor!— Well I I'm thro' for to-nigki, 



August 9th, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

How swiftly, indeed, time does hasten along t 
Two whole months of summer are already gone, 
The middle of August is now very near. 
And ere we're aware of it, winter'll be here. 
But yet, notwithstanding time passes away 
So exceedingly fast, and that day follows day 
In such rapid succession that one hardly leaves 
Their bed in the mom ere it comes dewy eve, 
Yet the same old story 'tis over and o'er. 
The same wearj routine gone through with once mor^ 
The same dull monotony day after day ; 
Now a trifle of work, then a small bit of play, 
A book that's absorbing, a brilliant day-dream, 
Or a bright, flashing ray from hope's glittering beam, 
A walk now and then on a clear moonlight night, 
A letter received, or perchanw* one to write ; 



NOLEN WATWBSL ti 

k ofJl from a friend, or a brief visit paid, 

kn engagement fuliilled, or some promises made, 

Sometimes a fine drive, an occasional song, 

Ajad thus, the long, warm, summer dajs pass along. 

I am heartily tired of these trivial things I 

I would like a change, now, whatever it brings ; 

Something wonderful, startling, or thrillinglj strange, 

Something new, something grand, anything for a cluuige \ 

i almost had said 1 would rather it be 

Even grief than this sameness so irksome to me. 

It is true we receive startling news every day 

From the army, but that's such a distance away, 

.Ajid no one is out there for whom aught I care, 

With exception, it may be, of Colonel Allair. 

Nor do I know why I should care for him much, 

Though I think him a friend, and I like him as such ; 

But then my acquaintance with him was but slight, 

And yet I did think he would certainly write. 

He did not, 'tis true, say he would, but I thought 

He intended to do so, but that matters not; 

I was thinking, perhaps, that it possibly might 

Have been some variation, although it were sKght, 

To the usual round that of late marks each day. 

But there, let him pass I I have something to aay 

About the events of the day nearly gone. 

I went out to service as usual this mom. 
But not as in general saw I the face 
Of my charming " unknown " in his usual place ; 
For a stranger, to-day, occupied his old seat 
bk ike choir, aud thui rendered their number complefto 



M arOLJBN WATSBA 

Mr. S. gave to us a war-sermon this mom. 
Which I of course listened to only with scom. 
I cannot at any time hardly submit 
Under one of his ultra war-sermons to sit, 
But think I was annoyed and disgusted still 
This morning than ever I have been before. 
The discourse provoked me, was tediously long; 
The music was harsh, and there seemed something wrongs 
Something wanting, in all of the service to-day, 
But what it might be I pretend not to say, 
And I only can tell that, as over and o'er 
I turned toward the choir, that I missed indeed more 
Than I like to acknowledge, I think, e'en, to you, 
My dear Journal, a face that I've been wont to view, 
A voice I have listened to gushing in song. 
And smiles that have beamed on me now for so long. 
I wonder where he could have been all to-day, 
And what could have kept him from service away. 
By the way, my dear Journal, I'll say in this place, 
That I heard a few days since his last name was " Chase," 
And that 'tis his intent to be married soon, too, 
And then I should like to know what I'm to do ! 
For she will get all of his smiles if she's there. 
And he will for me, then, have not one to spare. 
Such a fate would be terrible(?). And, by the waj, 
Perhaps that is why he was absent to-day. 
And wheu next I see him, perchance by his side 
I shall then see a beautiful, sweet, " blushing bride." 
But there I I should rtally like to know who 
The " fair ladye " may be if the story is true. 
And I wonder if he will then give up his place 
In the choir, if that should be tha state of the qmsu 



STOLEN WATERS. SW 

1 hope not ; I do not believe they will find 
His peer very soon, not, at least, to il.j^ mind. 
Perhaps, though, that Zmay be partial somewhat; 
6at then, who that ever has heard him is not I 
By all I believe he's acknowledged to be 
" Ne plus ultra " in singing, at least ! But, dear me! 
I am too tired to think, and I'm too tired to write, 
Ajid presume I have said quite enough for to-night. 



Av^guat 23dy 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

I have not been to church since the last time 1 ifrotft^ 
^t have had of the service each day a report, 
And each Sabbath they've politics had o'er and o'er ; 
And I thought I would not go to church any more 
Until there's a change, for I cannot endure 
rolitica in the pulpit, and think, I am sure, 
We hear quite enough of them during the week, 
Without going to church and there hear a man speak 
Of nothing at all beside slavery and war. 
Now, I do not believe but that J do abhor 
The system of slavery as much as does he. 
Am just as desirous the slaves should be free. 
But I own 1 don't think that the end justifies 
The means ; nor to me does it seem hardly wiae 
Our country to plunge into this civil war — 
Which every nation should always abhor — 
And our fair land to cover with unnumbered graTe% 
for thft powible iBf u« of freeing the slaveB. 



^ STOLEN WATEB& 

I think that if there had been made a decree 

That every child henceforth born should be firoe 

That it better, far better would been in the end^ 

For all would, of course, educated been, then, 

For freedom ; been qualified thereby to do 

Their share in this lifers hard, stem battle. And, too^ 

In a few fleeting years slavery would have been o'er, 

And the " cry of the oppressed " would be heard iie¥«i 

more — 
All chains would bo broken, all slaves would be frt%. 
And then, too, how many fond hearts there will be 
Left sad, and how desolate I Z don't pretend 
To be so patriotic: I never would send 
Any dear friend of mine, to lose limb, perhaps life, 
In this fratricide war, in this unholy strife. 
I am not patriotic enough, yet, to bind 
The sword to the side of a loved friend of mine. 
And to bid him " God speed," with a clear, tearless eye ; 
Bid him go forth to battle, perchance, too, to die. 
All alone and forlorn, with not one dear friend nigh 
To catch the last word, or last, tremulous sigh ; 
Or, in a rude hospital, sick and unfriended, 
To lie moaning with pain, yet unwatched and untended ; 
Or what would be worse still, in prison to be. 
Unfed and unclothed, sick for sweet liberty. 
Had this cruel war been with some other nation. 
We could have endured our fair land's desolation— 
Our broken home-circles, our firesides so drear. 
The hush of the voices that once were so dear. 
So fearfully hard it would not be to see 
Our loved ones torn from us. Tea, it would* indtitdt 



STOLEN WATEBS. 25 

hh «iil.itt>i»nt far if 'twas strife witli another 

Ijiind or power; hwx, brothers against their own brothertl 

Tw too horrid to thkiik of, or speak of, or write 1 

And I tbink, loo, thj*t I have already said quite 

Enough Ofi the subjer»ti ; I did not intend 

To do I'le tt»me thing vrhich I just now condemned, 

And pre»4ch » " war-s^-rmon," my Journal, to you. 

And perhaps, just as -iltra this one has been, too, 

As those Mr. b write:?, which I can't endure. 

But I'm no+. in vhe pulpit, and I am assured 

That my congre^tioij is not a mixed one. 

So I think there u not any great mischief done. 

It has been pretty stormy the whole day, and so 
I did not this mom go to church ; and although 
£ expected, as usual, they'd have war to-day, 
And that our Mr. Tenor remained yet away, 
I was somewhat mistaken on both points, I find, 
For the sermon this morn was exceedingly fine — 
Father told me (he went out this morning alone), 
And the music of course was, because " my Unknown" 
His usual seat in the choir filled this mom ; 
And of course I regretted that I had not gone. 
[ would like to see him, and find out if I can, 
ff of him I must think as a lost, married man. 
And I might have been able to tell if I'd gone 
To church. But, it's being so stormy this mom, 
She would not have been out very probably, so 
I presume it's as well now that I did not go. 
B it I would like to know if he's married or not— 
(, indeed, scarcely think that he is. I forgot 
% 



26 STOLEN WaTBBS. 

That I had tne gentleman's name ascertained ; 
I shyuld caU him by it. Yet it's aU the samel 
To me he's the " Unknown," beside, I'm not quitt 
A wiired that the name to me given was riglife 

As father thought he wj)uld go down town to-nighi, 
And as it was stormy, and dark, too, about 
Half-past seven, to service none of us went out. 
But next Sunday morning, I think I shall go, 
And try to find out if he's married or no ; 
And then, my dear Journal, I'll let you know, too, 
And until then I think I must bid you adieu. 



September 9thf 1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Again over two weeks have flown swiftly past. 
And two Sabbaths have flitted by since I wrote ' 
I service attended two Sundays ago. 
And saw Mr. Tenor, but still do not know 
Any better, in fact, than I did the last time 
I wrote of him here in this journal of mine, 
If he's married or not; I indeed only know 
That as usual he sat in the choir ; know, also. 
That no lady was with him that morning, and, too, 
lEe looked and appeared just as he used to do. 
1 might, therefore, as well still believe him to be, 
Until I know better, " heart-whole, fancy-ftee I " 



STOLEN ¥ATBELa. 21 

I went out to Tarrytown last Saturday, 
Remaining 'tUl Monday, and so was away 
From service on last Sunday morn. Nothing new 
Has occurred since that time. Yes, indeed ! there has, too \ 
The carrier called yesterday afternoon, 
My Journal, and brought me a leiter ; from whom 
I could not imagine at iSrst, as the hand 
Was quite unfamiliar ; but when I began 
A perusal of it, and had looked to see where 
It was dated, inferred 'twas from Colonel Allair ; 
And, on turning to look for the name at the close, 
I found it to be just as I had supposed. 
'Twas indeed a nice letter, but only just such 
As I knew he would write, and it did please me much. 
'Twas dated at Vicksburg, the twentieth day 
Of last month ; and informed me that he'd been away 
On service detached, for some little time past ; 
But had now been sent back to the army, at last. 
That at the surrender of V. he was there ; 
But on the day followiag. Colonel Allair 
Was detailed to convey to his far Western home 
The mortal remains of a friend of his own. 
His regiment's Major. And that was why he 
Had postponed for so long, this, his letter to mo 
But hoped I'd excuse his unwilling delay. 
And very soon write him a few lines to say 
He still might regard me a friend. That 'twas not 
Because for a moment that me he forgot. 
But feared that ere this I'd ceased thinking of him. 
But hoped not, and trjsted, though that might har* 
The case before now, this would serve to remind 
lie lufficiently of him to send V^iwi a Uoe. 



28 STOLEN WAJERB, 

{ aaid to iiini once, I was fearful that we 
On certain points possibly might disagree. 
80 he writes ; 

" My dear friend, why snppoBB thftt wa de f 
I do not imagine we'd quarrel, do you ? 
I believe, certainly, every one has a right 
Their own free opinions to hold. Though they might 
Differ widely from others, I never should think 
That they much monil courage possessed, should they shrink 
From freely expressing the same. And although 
I am likely to say what 1 think, am also 
Willing others should do just the same. So think we 
Shall not, my dear friend, vein/ miicJh disagree." 
Then in speaking soon after of what he well knew 
To be my opinions on war and peace, too, 
He says : 

" I imagine, from what you have said^ 
ITiat your * love of imion ' is too limited. 
I think that, if I understiind you aright, 
That your love of union must ever be qidte 
In abeyance unto your wishes for peace, 
To your earnest desii-e that the war should soon 
Now my love of * union with peace ' is strong, too, 
But when it is necessary to subdue 
Rebellions like this, T say, * imion with war.' 
But there are more unions that IVe a love for. 
* A union of States, and a »mion of lands, 
A union of hearts, and a union of hands.* 
iLjid a union of mim to the woman he loves, 
Providing, of coarse, that both parties spproT^* 
Ihen hs adds ^^rther down, 



STOLEN WATERS. 2t 

^^ But I jet do not know. 
Of the passion of love, auything at all ! So, 
If any peculiar sensations are felt, 
I own I am ignorant of their effect; 
Nor do I intend, now, to miike any such 
Proposals to you, unless I very much 
Change my mind on the subject. But hope now and then, 
For some flashes of wit fi'om your bright, lively pen, 
That, for sweet friendship's sake, you'll sometimes send to m« 
A few lines, the monotony thus to relieve 
Of my dreary war-path ; and as far, too, as lies 
In my power to do so, I ever shall try 
To render it pleasant to you." 

That's about 
All he wrote I But my light is so fast going out, 
I must shut up my book, I suppose, for this time. 
And go down-stairs. But, hark I the bell's ringing for ain«. 
So the gas in my dressing-room think I will light. 
Bead an hoar or two, and not go down to-night. 



September 27t^, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

My dear little Journal 1 I come here once moi^ 
To have a nice chat, as so often before 
We've chatted together in this tiny room, 
A.t sunrise, at sunset, at nidnight, and noon. 
Under all circumstances as well as all times, 
Right her«, in this little dear " Sanctum " of minfl^ 



30 STOLEN WATEBa. 

This place all so quiet, where no one intnidoB, 

The spot where I alwajs may find solitude, 

I sit here when the morning sun's glorious beams 

Through the deep, arching window so dazzlingly sti 

And gilds with a radiance almost sublime 

Every object in this dear apartment of mine — 

The easy-chair here in this curtained recess, 

The table beside it vn\h. wide-open desk, 

The papers, engravings, and late magazines, 

And touches again with its i*adiant beams 

Every favorite book in the cases, and all 

The familiar dear pictures which hang on the walL 

I love the spot, then. When the deep glowing noon 

Makes oppressive the heat, then I come to this room. 

And I draw down the curtains to soften the light. 

If a book I've to read, or have letters to -write. 

Tnen I love to sit here when the gathering twilight 

Proclaims day is rapidly yielding to night, 

Watch the swift-fading hues of the far sunset sky, 

The stars glimmer out in the blue vault on high. 

And trying to count them, as fiist, one by one, 

They dot the wide cii'cle of Heaven's arching dome. 

Then I love to come here in the night's silent noon, 

When from high, spangled throne the fair, pale " lady Moon* 

Serenely looks do^^^l on the still, sleeping world, 

With its armies at rest, and its biumers all furled, 

Its doors barred, windows blinded, and storehouses closed, 

And everything sleeping in perfect repose. 

But tl\ough on the world she looks coldly, and me. 

She floods with pure silver each leaf, bud, and tree, 

And my " Sanctum " she fills with a weird, mystic lights 

Oh, w'lo can help loving a clear, moonlight night f 



STOLEN WATERS, SI 

Then I sit in the window and rear in the air 

Castles gorgeoualy grand, and surpassinglj fair I 

And give myself up for the time to bright dreams, 

And imagine that all things are just what they seem ; 

That all that doth glitter is pure, unalloyed gold, 

That the world is not heartless, and cruel, and cold. 

That friends never are false, nor our loved ones untme, 

No lost hopes to mourn, and no errors to rue, 

That all is sweet harmony, purity, love, 

No sorrow below, and no dark clouds above. 

But wiien wishing to sleep, give me then a dark room, 

No gas-light, no stai-light, no light of the moon, 

Let the curtain droop low, and draw down the blind tighfti 

And bid to things earthly a silent good-night. 

Well I my brother each Saturday's been up for me 
To go for the Sabbath with him up to T. 
Since the last time I wrote, and of course, too, I wett — 
I had no excuse, there was naught to prevent. 
And so I have not been to church 'till to-day, 
Although I disliked much remaining away. 
And it did seem so pleasant to be there once more, 
And to hear the grand organ's exquisite notes pour 
All through the vast temple, and hear once again 
The tones of the choir with the organ's notes blend. 
*Twa3 nice, just to sit in my usual place. 
And see there above me the same smiling face. 
I went out to service this eve, too, again, 
ft is 80 pleasant there in the evening ; and then 
I like my " Unknown " to observe best at night. 
Though he looks quite as well, by day as by gas-lighi 



82 STOLEN WATERS. 

He's splendid in all places, and at all times ; 

And I do like him ever so much, too, in fine ! 

By the way, I believe I at last have found out 

Bis name; and this time, too, without any dovkfc 

I never, in fact, beKeved really yet 

My former intelligence very correct 

In regard to the matter ; nor could I have called 

Him by that ; but his name is not pretty at all, 

The first or the last ; but I think I'll not tell 

You, my Journal, what 'tis — think 'twill be just m well 

That you should not know it. Suffice it to say 

That his first name is " John," and a name, by the way, 

That I never did like ; although 'tis, it is true. 

Quite a family name with us. Then I have, too, 

More friends by that name than by any beside, 

ItB Colonel Allair's, too 1 My Journal, good-night. 



N^ovember 3rf, 1863. 

TUESDAY. 

To-day in my birth-day ! I'm nineteen to-day. 
Can another whole year have so soon slipped away? 
4nd can it be possible that I have seen 
Of girlhood's sweet birthdays the last In my teens ? 
It seems, when I look back, almost like a dream, 
The years that have passed since I entered my teeii% 
And thought it would seem such a very long time 
Before I was out of them I But, Journal mine. 
The long years have flown very quickly away. 
And my nineteenth birthday I welcome to-day. 



SrOLEJV WATERS. W 

The weather to-day rather stormy has been, 
But cleared off quite pleasant before evening; 
The sun sank to rest in the beautiful west, 
fn his rich-tinted robes just as gorgeously dressed^ 
As if he'd not hidden almost the whole day 
His glorious head behind dark clouds of gray. 
And only emerged for a parting good-night 
Ere leaving our world with his life-giving light. 
Well 1 as it had cleared off so wondrously fair, 
I thought I'd go out for a breath of fresh air. 
And so, dressing, I went down to Ed Vamey's store. 
For some pond-lily, pens, one or two trifles more. 
He seemed, as in general, glad to see me. 
What a singular man he to me seems to be I 
Like Lord Byron's " bird with cerulean wings," 
Whose song ever " seemed saying a thousand sweet things," 
So his eyes and his tones do speak volumes sometimes, 
As he touches my hand, or his glances meet mine. 
His every word is almost a caress, 
And his manner, in truth, seems at times scarcely less. 
He's a rather fine-looking man, and — let me see I 
TTia age I sho ild think is about thirty-three. 
£ wonder sometimes if he seems just the same 
To all lady friends, or e'en some I could name ; 
I presume that he does, though, but such looks and toniM 
f could give to no one I've as yet ever known, 
And though I'm disposed very often to flirt 
He seems too much in earnest, and fear I might hnit 
His feelings far more than I'd gratify mine, 
And for such a flirtation I now have no time. 
With letters s^ '^^n from Colonel Allair, 
And my ^ Un^Jiown " to think about, too, do not 



84 BTOLEN WATERa. 

Another flirtation just now to begin, 

A.t least with Ed Yamey. Enough, thoigh, of him I 

Let him pass for the present. 

And, oh, by the way, 
I learned tha address of " my Unknown " to-day, 
TTia residence, his place of business, and all 1 
Next time I go down town I think I will call 
At the store ; and if he should then chance to be in. 
And I am so fortiuiate as to see him, 
I shall know I am right ; then I'll send him a note. 
Just the sweetest one also that I ever wrote. 

And now, as the hours are fast taking their flight. 
My birth-day I'll bid a regretful good-night ! 



I^avemher 9th, 1863. 

MONDAY. ^ 

1 of course went to chui'ch morn and eve, yesterday. 
It has been quite a time now, siuce I've staid away. 
Saw my charming " Unknown," and I heard once again 
His exquisite voice in the solemn refrain. 
And met the soft glance of his splendid dark eye, 
And saw the same smile, as in days now gone by 
Sucn ** perilous glances," " bewilderiug smiles," 
I very much fear this poor heart will beguile, 
^Till I yield me a captive to love's rosy hand. 
While he binds me quite fast with his glittering band, 
And imlike " Ellen Douglass " and " Malcolm Graeme," 
Hi* hand '11 hold the clasp, while my neck wears the chain 



STOLEN WATERS. 31 

Went down town this p.m. my friend Annie, and L 
Ao I stopped in the store as I chanced to pass by ; 
I purchased a magazine, at the same time 
Looking 'round for the owner, that " Unknown " of minei 
And I looked not in vain ! for, apart from the rest, 
He sat, cahn, serene, at a low private desk 
Swiftly writing —oh, would that it had been to me 
He was tracing those lines, graceful, careless, and free, 
Intent on his task, never once raised his head, 
Nor while I was in there a single word said. 
He did look so handsome, so splendid, so grand. 
Sublimely unconscious, that so near at hand 
Was a girl just sufficiently fooHsh to let 
His mild, handsome face haunt her thoughts even yet. 

But enough I let him pass ! I have seen him, and when 
I get ready a note I will send him, and then 
Perhaps he will sit in the very same place, 
And over my letter bend his handsome face. 



Nbvembm- 16ihy 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

The last week passed quietly, calmly away. 
With nothing important to mark its brief stay. 
Af y sister came home from the East, Thursday mom, 
And the next day a note from my friend, " Colonel JotoL' 
That is all, I believe, that is worthy of note, 
Exoept that one evening a few lines I wrote^ 



86 STOLEN WATERS. 

Intending to send it off to my " Unknown," 
But mj heart having failed me, I left it aloiMi 
/ind its in my writing desk, still incomplete, 
But I think I will finish it during this week. 

It rained this A.M., so we all staid at home, 
And father and I went this evening alone. 
"We were rather late, also, and when we went in, 
The choir were just taking their places to sing. 
My " Unknown " was there in his usual place, 
Smiles adding their charm to his fine, manly face l 
And as the rich light with its radiance warm, 
Beautifying and brilliant, streamed over his form. 
To his strange fascinations quite captive once more, 
I thought him more pleasing than ever before. 
What is there about him bewitches me so ? 
I am sure that I wouM very much like to know. 
It is not his face, for although it is fine, 
And I've praised it so highly, too, time after time. 
Yet I've seen a great many far handsomer men. 
There's Colonel AUair, to begin with, and then 
Charlie Darling, and Morrill, and Gus, and — oh <?ear t 
A great many more that I can't mention here. 
It must be his manner, if 'tis not his face, 
His sweet smiles, witching glances, his fine, manly gnuM^ 
His exquisite voice ever charmiug me so ; 
And I think, more than all else, the fact that I know 
Bo little of him, and not like to know more, 
And am sure if I did that the spell would be e'er. 
Acquaintance would break the enchantment, I m lure^ 
of my girlish folly effect ft full cure. 



STOLEN WATEB8. 31 

Well ! the service soon ended as all things must ib, 
A.nd here I sit talking, my Journal, to you, 
And showing, you see, just how foolish I am, 
To waste so many thoughts on a quite unknown 
But there ! not a single word more will I write I 
80 I bid you, my Journal, once more a good-night. 



Ntyvember ISthy 1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Well I the deed is accomplished, the die has been cast, 
And I've sent to my " Unknown " a letter, at last ! 
I wrote it last evening, despatched it to-day, 
He'll receive it to-morrow, if there's no delay. 
£'m impatient to know what its destiny '11 be ; 
If he'll deign to send a nice answer to me, 
In " charity " written, with kindly words fraught, 
Or cast it aside as unworthy a thought — 
Misconstruing the motive with which it was sent, 
Alone on its author bestow his contempt. 
My letter ran nearly as follows, I guess, 
First, the usual form of the date and address : 
Date— " New York, November 18th, '6.«« 

Address — " My dear Sir : 

" I trust you'll pardon ms, 
And not deem me bold if I send you a line, 
Ton a stranger ! Thus laying aside, for a time. 
All etiquette rules ; hoping you'll not refuse 
To freely forgive me ; and for my excuse^ 



8d STOLEN WATEB8. 

Pleading int'rest iii you, and my Lopes you will send 
A few lines in answer to your unknown friend. 

I saw you at first, if I recollect right, 
Over one year ago, and in church. Sabbath night. 
What drew my attention at once, by the by, 
I know not, unless 'twas the glance of your eye, 
The smile on your lips, merry, careless, and free, 
And your exquisite voice ever charming to me. 
Since that time I've seen you again and again, 
And each time I have liked you more, even, than then ; 
And although it is possible I have no skill 
In reading correctly one's character, still 
I think I may say you're not one to object 
To a little flirtation, if innocent — ^yet 
If I am mistaken I wonder if I 
Could not reach your vanity if I should try. 
Is it nothing to win an emotion from one 
Who yields to the charm of your presence alone? 
A passing emotion to win from the heart 
Of one who has never been * pierced by love's dart ' ? 
Whose pulse other men have no power to thrill. 
Who is queen of herself — and intends to be still ? 
You will think this is strange — so do I ! — but you know 
There are many strange things in this poor world of 
And I must repeat my sole motive to be. 
My desire from your hand a few lines to receive — 
There I I might have delayed a month longer, or so, 
And then for my reason had * Leap Year ' you know; 
Why did I forget it ? But 'tis all the same. 
Now 'tia not my intention to tell yoa my 



STOLEN WATERS. 89 

Or aught of myself, and am sure 'twill be vain 

For you to attempt any knowledge to gain 

Df your correspondent, and it is alone 

A future acquaintance to you'll make me known. 

But here let me tell you, en passcmt^ my Mend, 

That though to a stranger this letter I send, 

That though * to thee only e'er turns my fond heart| 

And life is all lonely except where thou art,' 

Though I sometimes * long for a glimpse of your face. 

With hopeless heart-achings for one dear embrace,' 

Yet your wife — if you have one — ^is not, by the by, 

Notwithstanding all this, any purer than I, 

And the fiiendship I now entertain for you, too. 

Is as disinterested, as sincere, and true. 

As the most nice, fastidious person could wish. 

I presume that I need not ask you to keep this 

Strictly private ; a man of your age can but know 

That it is for your own interest to do so. 

Even more than for mine. And, indeed, I may say, 

That it matters but little to me, either way, 

For you are acquainted with no one that knows 

rhe hand which I write. So you see, I suppose, 

f ou can know naught of me, except what I propose 

Ihis time or in future to you to disclose. 

"Now in closing my note, I ask — wUl you net seod 
A. few lines in answer to your unknown friend ? 
4Lnd if, in the mean time, you should regard this 
With favor sufficient to grant me my wish. 
Will you not oblige me by wearing your ring 
On your left hand, the next Sabbath mom, \^ h en you sing f 
Not so ignorant am I of wh>\t we all call 
The * world,' not to fancy with readiness aT 



40 STOLEN WATEBB, 

You may think of the one who this note Bends to foik 

But judge me with charity, as is my due, 

And some time you may have occasion to change 

Yo'ir opinion of me I — 'twould be naught very strange 1 

Now, hoping to hear from you during the week, 

1 am, 

** With sincerity, 

« Yours. 

« 'Bitter-Sweet.'" 
That, except my address, is the whole, I beUeve. 
I may have an answer by Saturday eve. 
But probably not 'till the following week. 
I am glad I have finished — I'm almost asleep. 



HTwemher 22d^ 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

One more holy Sabbath has vanished among 
llie things that have been 1 And once more I am 
Fcr a few moments' chat, my dear Journal, with yoo 
As there's now nothing else I'm desirous to do, 
And as I don't care to retire either, yet. 
Though I ought to before very long, I expect^ 
For it's nearly eleven now, I must admit. 
I dovCt like to go to bed early one bit I 



I meant, as I said the last ^ime that I wrote^ 
To have gone yesterday, to find out if a note 
At the office was waiting, in answer to mine 
f despatched to my unknown friend '' onoe on 



arOLBN WATBNS. ♦i 

But when I ^ai dressed, and had sieppe^ out fcisc door-, 

I perceived what I'd quite failed to notice before, 

That 'twas then raining fast ; so I <^hought Td dela^ 

My walk to another and pleasanter day. 

I did not, in fact, care about getting wet, 

And 'twas doubtful, beside, if he'd written me yet. 

Well' I've been out to churoh mom and evening 9^^, 
As a matter of course, my df^ar Journal ! and when 
The choir were come forward tho first time to sing. 
Of course my first glance was for his diamond ring. 
And my first thought for him ! And as then from my book 
I raised my eyes slowly, my fii*«^, quiet look 
Was rewarded by seeing him standing up there, 
And looking as merry, ao gay^ free from care. 
As handsome, as smiling, as oplendidly grand, 
As ever before. And there on Ids left hand, 
And taking especial pains to have it seen. 
Was, as I expected, his elegant ring. 
To-morrow some time I'll be certain to go 
To see if he's sent me a letter or no. 
Or if he was playing when carrying out 
The request I in mine made his fine ring about. 

My brother and sister were in town to-night. 
And went to church with us. 

M y " Unknown *' was |uiti 
Amased about something, but 1 do not know, 
Of course, what it was. But, — I think that, althoiigh 
With the same laughing glance he looked into my eyes, 
Betraying therein no unusual surprise. 
No curious wonder, yet he does not dream 
That I'm his unknown correspondent, 1 



*2 STOLEN WATWEta. 

Bis ring still remained on his left hand to-ni^t, 
And I saw it, of course ! but he did not make qidto 
So much effort to hold it in such a way, then. 
That it might be observed — as he did this A.M. 
Sometimes 'twas behind him, as often he stands. 
And sometimes his hymn-book was held in that 
But here I've sat dreaming and writing of him 
And events of the day 'till my eyes are quite dii% 
So my book I will shut up this instant, and write 
Not one other line in my journal to-night. 



Novemh&r 26d^, 1863. 

THXJItSDAY. 

To^iay is " ThaxJtsgiving ! " But first let me write 
*Vliat has happened to me since the last Sunday nigbt- •• 
That is, the result of my venture last week, 
The kind of reception my letter did meet, 
With all that pertains to the same 1 

You must know 
The morning hours, Monday, dragged tediously slow. 
While the tasks which employed both my hands and 

time, 
d!elped but little to quell such impatience as mine — 
Provoking impatience ! my most common sin 1 
Which makes in my heart such perpetual din, 
Which ruffles my temper, and oft clouds my brow. 
Unstrings every nerve, 'till I'm ready to vow 
That life is a burden I fain would lay down, 

yield with the cross all my hopes of the crowm; 



STOLEN WATERS. 43 

That life is a battle the strongest must win, 

Bo they powers of good, be they powers of sin. 

So much for impatience ! which, last Monday monij 

An unwelcome guest, which refused to be gone* 

With hand on my heart-strings, kept close at my aidt| 

And made the slow hours e'en more tardily glide. 

Well 1 the afternoon really did come at last, 
And about two o'clock, or a few minutes past, 
I was dressed, and had started for Brooklyn, to see 
If there was at the office a letter for me. 
(I directed, my Journal, his answer should be 
Sent to Brooklyn Post Office, in order that he 
Might the less reason have for suspicions of me; 
For I, of course, do not intend he shall know 
Who I am, either now or hereafter, and so 
I must take all precautions lest he should find out, 
As he would be glad to do, I've not a doubt!) 
Well I when the detestable clerk there had eyed 
Both me and my letter till quite satisfied. 
And quizzed me 'till patience was vanishing fast, 
The much wished for letter he gave me at last. 
With it safe in my hand I left there in great haste, 
And for New York I started at once with quick pace, 
And once more to impatience succumbing, you see, 
And regardless of what etiquette's rules might be 
On the point, I at once broke the seal of my notie, 
And in the street read what my unknown friend wrote | 
But glanced through it so swiftly, I really knew 
little more of my letter when I had got through 
Hum when I began ; but I hastened back home, 
At Cut as I could, and when once more alone 



^ STOLEN WATERS. 

i read the nice note to my heart's full content 

Which he to his new friend so kindly had sent. 

He writes an uncommonly nice, handsome handy 

Especially so for a true business man, 

Full and round, smoothly flowing as well as quite pi«IiH 

And the well-expressed sentiments, pleasing, the same ; 

On " Carson's Congress " it was written, enclosed 

In a plain buff envelope ; the same, I suppose, 

Which he keeps in his office for use when he writet 

To his business friends. That, too, is just what 1 like I 

Whenever a man sends a letter to me 

1 like that the note should a mamly one boj 

[n paper, envelopes, and handwriting, too, 

k& well as its contents both honest and true. 

But whenever a lady a note sends to me, 

I don't care how dainty the billet may be. 



To return to his letter again ! Journal, dear, 
L suppose you would like me to give to you here 
A copy of it, as I have done of mine, 
And I think I will, too, though I hardly have time; 
It was not very long, or at least the one sheet 
Was not nearly filled. It commenced — 

« « Bitter Sweet ! ' 

" Your note of the 18th to me 
to-day. 
And I truly can do nothing less than to say, 
That, as well as surprised, I of course could but be 
Somewhat pleased at its contents I But 70U mnat 

ceive 
That you have indeed the advantage of me, 
And I am of course very curious to see 



STOLEN WATERb. 4» 

And know you ; altho' you need have not a fear 

I will take any means not quite open and clear, 

And overy way hon'rable, to ascertain 

What would give me much pleasure to have you explain,-** 

That is, who is taking such interest in me. 

And who my unknown correspondent may be. 

** What a fine, pretty hand you are writing I and so, 
Of course, young and fresh it must be. Do you know 
What Don Caesar Bazan exclaims to the veiled bride, 
As he takes her whit© hand upon reaching her side ? 

* It's tol'rably soft, and I'm curious to know. 
With such a small hand, if a wrinkled face gooa.' 
Now that is just what is the trouble with me, 
And I wonder if I could your hand just once see, 
I could of your face judge, as you seem to trace— 
Or affect to at least — by a glance at my face. 

My character social. But, let me ask * who 
Hath made thee a judge ' as between me and you? 
Who has said I objected to what you have called 
An * innocent flirtation ? ' Oh, no 1 not at all 1 
And as to the * vanity,' I have my share. 
King Solomon seems to have had some to spare, 
Tf we judge by his words. 

" But there I I cannot wnto^ 
To you, except 'tis with some vagueness, to-night, 
As I do not know who you may be — man or woman, 
A spirit or goblin. Divine or quite human. 
And do you remember what * Sam Weller ' says 
(Of course you read Dickens ; all do in these days), 

* Weal pies wery good is, when one knows as what 
They are made of.' But who yoi may be I know aot» 



*6 STOLEN WATERS. 

Though iho writing iloi^s look quite fjuuiliar, *ti» fcrv*; 

1 never was good at coiiimdrums ! Are you t 

If your wish is to see wx^}^ why, you o^m do so 1 

ni not eat you, no oiuinibal aui 1, you know. 

I think iij) to Oarleton's 1*11 go, by the bj, 

And a copy of * Bitk^r Sweot ' piiivluu^e — sliall I ? 

Do you me^ui to somo fuu have at my sole expenae? 

Vxe a [K)em that's better thaw what you have sent, 

Or quvU<i from, nithor, but think it will keep 

Until 1 know more of my friend * Bitter Sweet ! ' . 

I shall think in the meantime, believe me, of jou, 

With only the * c/uiriti/ which is your due ' — 

Ail of my nature's charity, which 1 believe 

I may say, too, is much. 

" Now in closing, reoeiya 
My kindest reganis, and lK>lieve me to be, 
Now and ever, indeed, 

" Truly yours, 

"*Antony."' 
" To * Bitter Sweet I * (wormwood and sugar.)" 

And thai 
Was the end and was :dl. Can it be 'tis in fiact 
A note fnnn my " Unknown'' 1 hold in my hand? 
Am 1 drt^aming, or is it a truth, that tiie man 
Whose eyes have so oft^n of late sought my own, 
And whose every motion familiar h:is grown. 
To whose voice 1 have list<»iied again and again, 
In solo, or chorus, or solemn rt>fnun, 
Has over this letter Ivnt hU handsome face, 
That his hand hoi 1 tbe pen which tluve kind wordi kftTf 
traced, 



STOLEN WATERS *7 

Tlmt his heart or his braiu hajs diotated thiB A»te, 
A pIoHaiug reply to tlie one which 1 wrote ? 
I OAiinot the fact realize. 

By the \Ta,y \ 
I Mw at au artistes rooms lately, one day, 
A. picture exactly liko my " Antony." 
(En jMiHsiuit., lie seoiiuui to adopt nnuiily, 
The ftuiciful name which I signed to ni}' note, 
And iu8t(>ad of his using his o^^^l when he wrote, 
He too took a fancy one ! mine ought to l)e 
" Cleojwitni," to match well with his " Antony I") 
To return to tlie [)icture I And whose it might be, 
Or if it was his, 1 was anxious to see. 
The resembhuice was striking, the painting, too, fins, 
I gazed at its details for quite a long time. 
I was sure it was him, or that if it was not, 
Whoever it was, he had certainly caught 
His smile and expression ! and not only that. 
The poise and contour of tlie head were exact. 
The features were like, and the beard worn the same, 
And in till points the likeness wt»s perfectly plain. 
His name of the artist 1 presently tisked. 
Wliat was it ? let's see I J believe it has passed 
Wholly out of my mind. But it matters not, thon^ \ 
He resides up at Harlem is all that I know. 
It was not my *' Antony." 

Oh, by the way, 
Had I gone to tlie office on last Saturtiay 
His note 1 should probably found, as tlie date 
^•» November 19th. But it's getting quite late, 
[ must haste '•rith what else I'm intending to write. 



48 STOLEN WAIEBS. 

The first thing I did, of course, last Monday nij^ty 

Was to sit myself down at my desk, to indite 

A. reply to my note. And I asked him to send 

Hiij next though to Brooklyn, in care of a Mend^ 

My cousin Lorette. She was over to-day, 

Ajid I told her about it ere going away. 

And charged her to keep it quite safely for me 

Did the letter arrive before I was there. She 

Thought it was romantic, yet hardly approved. 

She thinks that the world and its people should mcrrv 

In the one self-same channel forever and aye. 

But I tire of the same events, day after day, 

A change like sometimes, and the stranger the betteir. 

Oh dear, I will try and get back to my letter. 

I don't know what ails me I somehow I can't keep 

To-night on one subject. I am not asleep, 

I believe. But then ! I've been so blue all the day, 

Though there is no reason for it, I must say ; 

I believe that I am not like other girls quite. 

A houseftd of friends we have had here to-niglit, 

In fact, have all day, and all Mends near and dear, 

But somehow the day has been lonely and drear. 

To to-day, though, I have not arrived yet ; my thougbli 

Seem to be anywhere else except where they ought. 

Once more to my letter I 

The first thing I wrote 
Was but to acknowledge receiving his note, 
With thanks for the favor ; and as to the rest, 
Twas less sentimental than saucy, I guess. 
1 began with afiectionate warmth, it is true, 
And there was an undertone of it all through. 
But yet it could hardly be calJed sentiment. 
As the frail wood anemone's delicate scent 



STOLEN WATES& 

Is too freAi And too faint to be named a perfbnfl^ 
So this was too faint and too p are. 

To resume I 
I thanked him, of course, for replying so soon. 
And fulfilling my wish in regard to the ring, 
Waa exceedingly glad to find, I assured him, 
By the letter which I that p.m. had received, 
That he in that point at least had not deceived 
His firiend yet unknown, howe'er treacherous he 
l^ight in the dim future himself prove to be. 
I gave him in answer to what he would know 
Of me and my name the quotation below : 
" I know a girl with sunny curls. 

And shoulders white as snow ; 
She lives — ah, well ! I must not tell. 

But wovldiCt you like to know ? 
She has a name, the sweetest name 

That mortal can bestow. 
^Twould break the spell if I should tell. 

But woiddrCt you like to know ? " 
Somewhat tantalizing he'll think it, I fear. 
The best I can do for him now, though, howe'er 
Desirous he may be to know more of me. 
Then I said— 

" So you fcincy that if you could SM 
My hand you could judge of my face I I will try 
And send you a photograph of it. Shall I ? 
Of course you can't guess who I am 1 I did not 
Suppose that you could I but I know all about 
You and yours I and not only that, but I've bei>- 
In your business place, and you were writing, too, 
But it was not to me. 



60 STOLEN WATERS. 

*' Don't you like, my dear frieMli 
My nomde-pliime ? Why I I am siire that the end 
Is moeet if the rest is not ; possibly, you 
Will find, if I'm sweet, I am bitter some, too. 
[ts language is * t/ruth.^ I believe I am true 1 
/think the name pertinent all ways 1 don't you?" 
I spoke of attending the service to-day, 
If nothing prevented, and went on to say 
That I never could see him at all, where I sit, 
Except during singing, and if he saw fit 
To sit farther forward, just so he could see 
The preacher, he at the same time would please me. 
And added, 

" I o?o * wish to see you,' and do 
Quite often, but hardly dare trust myself too 
Near to you for the present, at least. I can you 
At a safe distance see, but if you would please send 
Your picture to your, though unknown, yet true friend 
'Twould indeed please her much." 

Then I asked him if ha 
Did not Uke my poetry ; and — saucily — 
" Now I thought you would think it was flattering, quite ; 
1 defy you to find any better. You might, 
Though, send me the piece you referred to, and I 
Expect it win come to me with your reply." 
I wrote somewhat more, but we'll let the rest go. 
It rained very hard all day Tuesday, and so 
I found it impossible quite to get out 
To mail it that day, so I very much doubt 
His having received it as yet, though it might 
^nst possibly come to his h inds late last nigh.t» 



STOLEN WATERS, 5\ 

To-day is "Thanksgiving" — I said so before— 
And I'm heartily glad that the day is now o'er. 
The morning was pleasant, but cold. I must own 
Twas not with reluctance I ^ent out alone 
To church this a.m. No one else was inclined 
To go out, or in fact seemed to have enough time 
To spare for the purpose. And though it is true 
We should have a political sermon, I knew, 
Yet I had my " Antony " told I should go. 
And I mean to do just as I promise, you know ! 
The sermon, if possible, seemed rather more 
Triumphantly ultra than ever before. 
The reverend man never energy lacks 
When he's preaching of war, or of freeing the blacka 
I did not, however, expect on this day 
To hear aught but that ; but endeavored to pay 
As little attention to it as I could, 

Though I could but acknowledge that some points were good 
For instance, he quoted in his matchless way, 
A poem from Whittier, which, I must say, 
Was not only pertinent, in itself fine, 
But rendered exquisitely. 

In the meantime, 
I thought of my Antony, who, I well knew 
Was right there before me, though hidden &om view. 
When the service was over, and we going home. 
He walked right in front of me, he, too, alone 1 
How little he knew that his friend " Bitter Sweet " 
Was 80 near at hand as he turned at his street- 
How I wished that the spell were dissolvea that miuit keef 
XJi foiever apart ; that at ono mighty sweep 



62 STOLEN WATEB& 

I miglifc oreak all the bands with which Custom doth bind 

Our acts, though we still keep unfettered our minds. 

Well ! he passed down the street, and soon entered his doca 

And between us there then rose one barrier more. 

I, too, hastened home ! As I said once before, 

WeVe a houseful of visitors had here all day ; 

I might have enjoyed it if I had been gaj. 

As I am sometimes. Hark ! the clock's striking omt^ 

I am 40 tired, and glad that at last I haye done I 



ITovmnber 29th, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Another week's rapidly flitted away ; 
Again it is Sunday ! I went yesterday 
To make a short call on my cousin Lorette, 
With hopes that I also a letter might get. 
And she is true as steel, if she did not approve 
My romantic and somewhat unusual move. 
I knew I could trust her. We soon went upstaira 
To her own little " Sanctum Sanctorum," and where 
She placed me at once in her favorite chair, 
And gave me my letter, all safe, smooth, and fidr. 
Not long was I breaking the seal of my note. 
Or reading the kind words my Antony wrote. 
As I thought, he did not, it appears, receive mine 
(Jntil Friday a.m. And his letter was fine. 
Much nicer I think than the other he sent. 
And gave me much pleasure, I own I It comnwmowi 



STOLEN WATERB, M 

** To my sweetest Bitter, and bitterest Sweet ^ * 
A form of address I thought rather unique, 
Yet characteristic of him, I believed. 
And then wrote as follows : 

" Your note I reoeiTsd 
In this morning's mail, and of course I was pleMod 
At hearing from you. But you'll please recollect 
That Thanksgiving came yesterday, therefore expect 
From a quite torpid brain not much brilliance to-day^ 
In reply to your letter. And here let me say 
I believe that I am not afflicted at all 
With a certain disease which is commonly called 
« Cacoethes Scribendi.' " 

And then he went on 
To ask if I went to church Thanksgiving mom, 
And heard the " political sermon." He thought, 
As regards abolition and war, that it ought 
To content the most ultra — I'd written in mine 
That I was exceedingly fond of that kind. — 
He was pleased that his letter was gladly receivedt 
And hoped I'd enough " charity " to believe 
It to be on his part but a mere oversight 
That he failed in his other to ask me to write. 
Says — 

'^ I ask who you are, and you give me a Ut 
Of a poem in answer. Now I will admit 
Poetry is indeed very good in its place, 
But don't answer questions — at least in this cate. 
Of course I should much ' like to know ' who yon mn^ 
My far-off, unknown, * bright particulai star 1 ' 
I>o not send me a photograph, though, of your hand; 
If you do rU not have it, indeed I but /ou can 



64 8T0LBN WATBB8. 

The thing itself place in my own, then Vd know 

I was holding in mine something more tl an shadow ; 

But one of your face you can send me. How, though. 

Should I send mine to one I as yet do not know ? 

I've not lost my reason, or caution, and still 

Yon can have a good chance to exchange if you will, 

When I've aught to exchange with." 

How much I would llkt 
His fine pictured face ! How I wish that I might 
Comply with the terms, if in no other way 
I might have it. Although, it is needless to say. 
That's out of the question, of course. He'd know me 
As soon as he saw it, and that must not be. 
Who his " Bitter Sweet " is I cannot let him know^ 
Or now, or henceforth ; but I don't tell him so. 
He fondly imagines he'll know me some time. 
I don't undeceive him. Dream on, friend of mine ! 
Hope is good for the soul, and " an anchor both sure 
And steadfast," 'tis said. Though we find it a lure 
Too often, I fear, to the bitter despair 
Of grim disappointment. Hope promises fair, 
And leaves us to find, in reward for our faith, 
In our grasp but a phantom, a flickering wraith — 
A shadow delusive, as fleeting as sweet. 
Yet by all mankind followed with swift, eager feet, 
Who will never be warned by another's sad fiite 
But press madly forward, nor pause 'till, too late, 
They find themselves in disappointment's broad lakA 
She tells us without her our fond hearts will break. 
Then leaves us to sicken with faint " hope deferred," 
I hATe a dear friend whom I often have heard 



STOLEN WATERS. W 

Declare she has been disappointed in naught, 

Because she ne'er hopes. She had certainly ot ghi 

To be indeed happy ! At least, Z think so. 

I envy her more than all persons I know. 

But I'm not like her ; I have less self-control, 

A. more turbulent heart, and more intense soul ; 

Have less calmness of nerve, and less coolnesfl cf loraiiii 

Less firmness, more impulse ; in short, it is plain 

We are cast in two moulds which are very unlike. 

Or made of materials difierent quite. 

But if I could crush out all hope from my heart. 

And in my acts give the " fair siren " no part, 

Last not to her calls, shut my eyes to her smiles. 

And yield nevermore to her dangerous wiles, 

Feel free from her temptings both now and alway^ 

I would have nothing more to desire 1 I could say, 

" Howl, wind of November, rough, wrathful, and chilly, 

As loud as you please, and I'll not take it illy, 

For here in my chamber all's comfort and ease. 

All's peace and delight, all is pleasure and glee. 

For I'm happy to-night as a mortal can be I " 

But " Dum spiro spero " 's my fate, and should be 

My motto ! 

Well ! back to his note — let me see I 
How far had I written ? The picture — and then 
The next thing he wiote was, I think, near the end^- 
" Your quotation — I surely no fault found with it, 
For 'twas good, and if true was of course better yet 
But then, I am sure it was merely ideal, 
AJid I send you my own, and imagine it reaL 
Chifl scrawl please excuse, and believe me 

" Yoar own 

<«Ajit0B7 



M m^OLEN WATES8. 

"To mj 'Bittersweet' " 

This TTEfl the poem . 

•* You kissed me ! my head had dropped low on your 
breast, 
With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest, 
While the holj emotion my tongue dared not speak 
Flashed up like a flame from my heart to my cheek. 
Your arms held me fast ! and your arms were so bold, 
Heart beat against heart lq that rapturous fold, 
Your glances seemed drawing my soul through my eyes. 
As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies. 
And your lips clung to mine 'till I prayed, in my bliss, 
They might never unclasp from that rapturous 



*' You kissed me I my heart and my breath and my will 
In delirious joy for the moment stood stilL 
Life had for me then no temptations, no charms, 
No vista of pleasure outside of your arms. 
And were I this instant an angel, possessed 
Of the glory and peace that is given the blest, 
I would throw my white robes unrepioingly down. 
And tear from my forehead its beautiful crown. 
To nestle once more in that haven of rest. 
With your lips upon mine and my head on your breast. 

" You kissed me ! my soul in a bliss so divine 
Reeled and swooned, like a drimken man foolish with wins 
And I thought 'twere delicious to die then, if death 
Would come while my mouth was yet moist with your braatk 
TVere delicious to die if my heart might grow cold 
While your arms wrapped me round in that passionate fold 



STOLEN WATBBB. 51 

And these are the questioiis I ask daj and night : 
Must my soul taste but once such exquisite delight f 
Would yoi care if your breast was my shelter as then, 
And if you were here would you kiss me again ? " 

I think it exquisitely fine. And of course 
Seems doubly expressive to oome from that source. 
Impassioned and sweet, yet refreshingly pure, 
No fault I can have to find with it, I'm sure. 
But to come to to-day ! and to hasten it, too, 
For as ever 'tis late, I must quickly get through. 
To church mom and eve I of coui-se went to-day, 
Saw my "Antony," too, just as handsome and gay — 
He does have such an easy and nonchalant way. 
As if nothing could ruffle him, let others say 
Or do what they might. And his temper is sweet, 
I am certain, as well as his manner just meet 
To match with his face, so serene, true, and kind. 
His soft, laughing, passionate eye stUl meets mine, 
Persistently, sweetly as ever, and yet 
I've not the least reason to think he suspectb 
That I am his Bitter-Sweet I never a trace 
Since sending my first have I seen in his face 
Of bewilderment, doubt, curiosity aught 
Of inquisitive wonder. 'Tis strange he does not 
Have any suspicions, not only of me 
But of no one beside. There are many that Its 
Might with very good reason imagine to be 
His unknown correspondent. 

Oh well, letit paai! 
I lent him an answer to-day to Ids laxtt. 
8* 



58 STOLEN WATEBA 

Hell receive it to-morrow I And ch, by the wmy^ 

He sat not in front as I askeil him, to-day ; 

I suppose that he thinks he's not anxioas to be 

Closely scrutinized all the time, even by me, 

His " own Bitter-Sweet I " That 'tis sufficient that iM 

Is constantly conscious that some one imknown 

Is watching each motion and look of his own 

When he sings. So he sat in his usual seat 

In the " comer " this morning, and so Bitter-Sweet's 

tlequeat was unheeded I asked what he did, 

In my letter to-day, when he sat safely hid 

From sight in the " corner. "*"* 

'Tis late, and in bed 
I must hasten to pillow my quite wearied head. 



December 2d, 1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Oh, how perfect the night I I've been sitting upstairf 
The whole evening, nearly. My great easy chair 
And my table drawn close to the bright glowing grate, 
I have written and di-eamed 'till it's getting quite late. 
With my journal unopened before me. The night, 
With its undreamed-of beauty all liidden from sight, 
By the low-drooping shade, and the tightly-closed blind 
Unheeding the voice of December's chill wind, 
Ite soft ciUls for entrance at casement and door, 
I have, aj? I said, sat the bright fire before, 
Blow yielding to Fancy's magnetic advance. 
Her airy bright dreams, heart-bewildering 



STOLEN WATERS. M 

At intei^-als writing, when not in the power 
Of the lovely enchantress, 'till hour after hour 
Have rolled their swift round, to return never more 
From the vanishing past, from Eternity's shore. 
" Like a song that is sung, and a tale that is told," 
They have now passed away, and the day waxes old. 
Midnight softly approaches, and swift, one by one, 
The minutes glide onward, and — this day is done I 
The clock's striking twelve, my watch ticks a response 
And silence and midnight are now, for the nonce, 
Of our city twin-monai-chs unquestioned. The bell 
Slowly tolls for the hour just departed, and swells 
Softly deep on the clear, frosty air. Now the last 
Stroke is dying — farewell to to-day ! 

I had passed 
To the casement a short time ago, and I drew 
Up the shade to look out on the night. And a view 
Before me was spread I've no words to describe. 
My seat I resimied, but I left open wide 
Every blind in the room, that the fidl lustrous tide 
Of the night's perfect beauty might entrance gain heie« 
While I sit here and write. 

And the picture spreads oVwtt 
And sweetly before me ! The city lies calm 
In night's silent embrace ; and a lullaby psalm 
Is sung by the wind, though it tranquilly sleeps 
And heeds not the clasp or the music which sweeps 
So fitfully, tenderly o'er it. Its spires. 
Gleaming white in the moonlight, now seem to point bighei 
Than ever before to the home of the blest. 
All with eloquence speaks of sweet quiet and rest 



•0 STOLSX WATERS. 

^^ D\uch for the background ! Aud now in th© fore 

The j>Hrk lies till silejit, the trees festocned o'er 

With creamy white s^now-wreaths, luid ice-pemlant*, toOii 

W^iioh glitter like diamomls, or morning's eleivr dew, 

Ab over the whole strcivms the moonlights The street 

Is desert chI ! tuid hark ! I can hear my heart beat, 

So profound is the hush. The K>ng, deep shadows meet, 

Intertwining luid tracing, too, iigui-es unique, 

Gn\et^ful, fanciful, varied, oft shifting, ttx). 

As the tickle wind llits the white tive-bnmches through. 

And then over jUI is the arched azure sky, 

Det^jily bhie and uncknided. The moon's riding high 

On her gi-and throne of state, and her nuliance bright 

Sweeps over all points of the picture, lUid lights 

With a brilliance sublime the whole view. And tJis staT% 

Scintillesct^nt, umiuml>ei'ed, and lovelier far. 

To my eye, than all in the picture Wside, 

G'ow softly and puivly ; and spangle in bright 

And bouniUess pix>fiisdon tlie N^ast vault above, 

A glorious array ! And the bright stiir of love 

Still mort> lovely than any shines soft fivm a^r — 

Sweet Venus, our beautiful ** Evening star." 

Fuivwell lo tlie night ! let me now turn aw»y 
From it« l>eautiful self, while I come to to-day — 
The day just depiirted. 

I wejit this A. M. 
To Brooklyn to look for a letter again, 
And I went not in vain, though 1 f;uicied I should 
All the way over tJiero. He's indeed very good i 
I said in my last IM a long way to go, 
And ho^)ed tie would not disappoint me ', and so 



STOLEN WATERS. €1 

His letter was promptly dispatched. He replied 
As follows to that part : 

" You do not reside 
In Brooklyn, my Bitter-Swect ? Well I it is tru« 
I hardly supposed that you did ; nor did you 
Even say that you did : but you only implied 
It in your first letter." 

The city is wide, 
He cannot locate me. Poor boy ! 'tis too bad 
I can't tell him the whole. I am sure I'd be glad 
To do so at once, if I thought 'twould be best. 
Think of that, though, I imist not I And now for tne ^Wl^^ 
And hastily too, of my Antony's letter ; 
It was not very long, began — " My Sweet Tormentor ! " 
He acknowledged at first the receipt of my note. 
Praising me for the prom]>tness with which I last wiofcc, 
Saying I would an excellent post-mistress be. 
And then — 

" But don't bother my life out of me, 
Keeping me for so long in suspense, like a fish 
With a hook in his gills ! " 

So my gentleman is 
Getting rather impatient, I see ; nor can I 
Wonder at it, indeed ; but I can't gratify 
My dear friend in this point, though I made in reply 
Promise fair of acquaintance with me by and by. 
He was glad I was pleased mth the poem he sent, 
And how could I help it ? Hwas fine, and he meant 
When some better he found to at once kt me know. 
He sent me with this note another alsa 
llien he said, — 



62 



STOLSy WAISRS, 



" lu rogarxl to the ♦ oomer ' I rwui. 
Sometimes ' ^<\kv* a little^ Jou't talk mud\, iude^, 
But A greAt deal of tliinkiiig I da How should I 
For :i sight j^eivli mv^-lf up ? although, by tJie bv, 
I f 1 kuew where rou sat, might j>o.rhaj^ get a gUmp« 
Of 70U oncv in a while." 

1 r^iiioml>e.r now, sinc« 
Re<viving his letter, that I in my last, 
Oritioi^ng the |H>om - You Kisseii Me,*' had passed 
To say, I supjx^stvl every one's heart to be 
i>n the li^/t side. In that case, of cour^ he must 9M 
V }H>sition iu which a " he^ut K\us against heart," 
\t U>{ist, must W awkwaixi extremely. That jx^t 
lie replies to as folio\^-s: 

'• Now as to the ht^rt, 
*.^f ooui-st^ every one's is e-X|HVt<\l to Iv 
Oil the /</> side I but theii, ilid you never yet s«« 
Or hear of a i>erson that had not a begirt ? 
I ha^v, at least, m:my, I think, for my jvirt.*" 
Wrote a page or so more, then abruptly he says, 
I am going away to be gone a few daj^s, 
Shall return Friday morning, exj>ecting to find 
A letter from tair Bitter S\>-e<n, 

•' E>-\^r thine 

" Antony." 
S^> a note I have \>-ritten his ©v« 
In reply to his last, and which he will nvvive, 
I trust, aa he wL^e^l, Friday morn. A last look 
▲ 1 the b^atitlAil nigit while IV dosing my book. 



STOLEN WATJSB& €S 

D^oeniber 6<A, 18631 

SUNDAY. 

I^riligfat finds me agtuu iu my nice cosej room, 
>f cting close by the window ; the g:itliering gloom 
8s?wlj filling my Siinotum with weird shadows grim, 
While without distiuit obj ect« now swiftly grow dim. 
Failing are the rich hues from the fas west-ern sky. 
The first st^vr shines out in the blue arch on high, 
And the short winter twilight is oW. I must light 
The gas iu my sanctiun if wishing to \^Tite. 
Tve s;it here a long time, my eyes on the grand 
Sunset clouds in the west, with my cheek in my hand, 
Unoj>eneii the book in my lap. A tumult 
Of vague troubleii thought* in my mind, the resnlt 
Of to-day's observation and last night's erent. 
m tell you about it I 

*Twas late when I went 
To B. yest<?rday for my lett<?r. The day 
Had l>een, oh, *o long ! Fiiileti in getting away 
Till late in the afternoon ; then it \o me 
Seemed an endless long way fivm here over to B. 
All day I had soarcely dared think I sliould find 
Any letter awaiting me there, and my mind 
And nerve* were so wrought up with hope, doubt, and fewr. 
Being anxious to go, tmd yet forced to stay here, 
That rne been somewhat irritable all the day, 
Kerrous, too, and — well, " vtow," I once heard Gertrnde nj 



€4 JSTOLEJV WATBSS, 

And when I at length was en rcntte for Lorette's, 

As I said just above, tlie way seemed longer yet 

Than ever before. When I reached there at last. 

The snn had long set and 'twas growing dark faoL 

My cousin I found entertaining some friends. 

And I thought, I am sure, their call never would end. 

Lorette guessed the question my first glance implied, 

And by one just as eloquent quickly replied. 

And then softly whispered, while kissing my cheek, 

" Tve a letter upstairs for my dear * Bitter-Sweet.' " 

I was forced to seem calm, although inly I chafed, 

While they talked of all things, and of nothings ! and TSkvei 

About this one's fine mustache, and that one's sweet £EU)e, 

Of Miss A.'s last new dress, of Miss B.'s lovely lace. 

The next biUl, last night's party, and so, on and on, 

'Till politeness and patience were both nearly gone, 

I turned to tlie window in silence, and found 

It was growing yet darker each moment. The sound 

Of their farewells at length reached my ear ; and then I, 

With a smile not all feigned, turned to bid them good-bj 

Lorette shut the door on her callers, and ran 

Upstairs for my letter. 'Twas soon in my hand, 

And I went to the window to catch the few last 

Faint gleams of daylight, while she lighted the gas. 

1 turned from the -vasement at length, with a cheek 

A-flush with both pleiisure and pain — turned to speak 

To Lorette, but the dear girl had gone out the room 

That I might be alone with my letter. She sooiiy 

However, returned, in her sweet, pretty w»y 

Did her best to induce me in Brooklyn to st«y 

Until Monday A.M. ; but I sent her instead 

lb her room for a hat for her dear little haad. 



STOLEN WATEBix. 65 

And her home dress to change for her wjilking attiro. 
Her toilet was mads with a s})eed I atimire 
Very much, but somehow never can emulate, 
And homeward we started at once, at quick rate. 
She returned home this morning. 

And now for his lettot \ 
I think that he never has sent me a better. 
And yet, as I said once before, or implied. 
It gave me some paui if much pleasure. Each vied 
With the other for conquest. But still, of the two, 
£ think the most plei\sure remains. Though 'tis ti je 
[ scarcely can tell which is yet most complete. 
But if pleasure, my name it is like, hitter-sweet ! 
In order to make plain some parts of his note, 
I'm obliged te refer to some tilings which I wrote 
In my last one to him. And tii-st, some time ago. 
In one of my letters, and when he was so 
Very curious as to who B. S. might be, 
I told him he need not be looking for me 
Among hlach-eyed ladies in church. And I this 
Said because, though I did not assuredly wish 
Him to think me his new correspondent, I yet 
Did not care, I think, either, that he sliould suspect 
Any one else hiit me. And to this he has never 
Made any reply 'till this very last letter. 
Then in answer to what he about the P.M. 
In his other had said, I replied — 

" AVhen I sfeaA 
Some time in the country, a few years ago, 
1 kad a dear friend who was post-mistress. So 
I thought it fine fiir to assist h€ r, you kncv t 



66 STOLEN WATRRS, 

Nothing now wjuld it W to no, tlitn?loit», \ lu «*^ 

To bo a * P.M.* do you not, Antony ? 

I tliiuk l\\ nv>t oat\^ to hold office, altJiough, 

Undor * AbnU\am First/ "* Then I told him, below. 

In regiud to desiring to stv me, that I 

W.«is going do^^-ll to^>^l to havo made, by and by, 

A hair ring, which a doiu* friend in viying gave me, 

And then it wa^ jx>s&ible, tc>o, he might see 

His own ** Bitter-Sw^vtv*' Promise* doubtful soiuewluU 

And I ftuicy that A<», t<x>, will tliiiik they are not 

j£Zr/*Y: ^f,'y roliaWe, Then I said, tov^, 

Oonov^ruiug the picture — 

" I cannot send you 
One of mine, 1 Wlieve, fv^r youM ot^rtcviuly know 
At the v\>ry first gbuice who wa:5 * Bittex-Sw^et.' So 
If on no other terms you will seaid yours to me, 
Oontentoti without it supjK^se I must be,'* 

I cv>me now to his letter, of which I inteod 
A cv>py to give ftvm Wginniug to end. 
To you, juid to you, my dear Journal, alone. 
First, as usual, the date, then — 

** Mv •Antony's own I ' 
1 receivwi youre this morning, and find you art^ still 
Most punctual in your convsjH^ndejicie ; and will 
You be in \-v>ur jt>n>f>«4>f!s also ? 

" How caune 
That thought of tJie jx^st-mistress into my iMrain ? 
Was it a coincivience, do >*\iu surmise, 
i>r WTM^ it ^>athotism V say, my Blue Eyes ! 
And so (/i>w do not like * Abraham the First,' WevV^ 
V can't say tliat T^vlo a great deal myself^ 



STOLEN WATERS. 67 

AlUiough 1 doubt not there are yot many men 

That are, in some poinis, worno tlian ho is. Bi*. then 

Wo will lot, as a nmiiUo, our ' charity ' cover 

rheir sins of omisaic u and coniiuissiou over. 

Well! Tm just as inquisitivo, curious, too, 

Now as over before. Yours are not * eyes of blue ' 

When Tm singing at church I so froqiuvntly meet 

Upturned to my own, are thoy, my Bitter-Sweet ? 

Wliat do you suppose in the * corner ' 1 road ? 

* Words, words, words,' but 1 thiidc not a little indeed 

Of late, and of whom ? ayo ! my friend, that's the questioB 

Can you g\u>ss, or in truth make the slightest suggestion 

As to who it might bo ? Do wo not, it is clear. 

Attend service ihe pn^achor's fine sermons to hear, 

And of what he discourses to think ? 

" I su]>pose 
When you have your ring made I shall see it; who knowi 
But 1 am a judge of the article, too? 
Do you really think I should recognize you 
If your picture I saw ? Well I and what if I do ? 
Are you so ill-looking that you are afraid 
To be looked at, my B. S. ? 

" Quite likely you may 
Have before seen the poem, and possibly, too, 
The first. Both were good 1 I think this is, don't youi \ 
* For tlie })illow of dawn where you rest your headj 

I'll pillow my c wii on your breast instead, 

For love can sc ften the hardest bed. 
And I know that I love you I 

And when you grow tired of your marble hal^ 

Of your wtHiry life and its gilded tliralls, 

Oome where the voice of true love calkr 
And gee how I love you ! ' 



68 STOLEN WATERa, 

* La patience et am^re, mais son fi 'ait est doux I ' 
Yoiir whole name is there. When am I to see jc«. 
No longer to draw on the imagination 
Of 

"Your 

^^ Antony?" 

With fiill realizatioB 
That hs at last knew me, I went out, to-day, 
To service as usual. Although I must say 
My heart faster beat, as I entered the porch, 
And also the whole time that I was in church, 
Until its pulsations almost made me faint, 
And coloreil my cheek with a crimson not paint. 
And made me self-vexevl at my want of control 
Of my heart and my face. The vexation of soul 
Did not better it much. And then, not only that, 
But in front all the a.m. my " Antony " sat. 
And by his frequent glances, his witcliing, and wise, 
Conscious look, and soft smiles, too, whenever his ejtm 
Met my o^ti, very plainly told me, if before 
I had doubteil, that all mystery was now o'er, 
In his mind, at the least, and was cert^iin he knew 
His Bitt<n*-Sweet now. 7" would like to know, too. 
After such a long time how he came to suspect 
Me to be his unkno^^^l correspondent. And yet, 
I wonddr, as I've said before, he has not 
Read tlie riddle ere this, tuid discerned the whole >lo4» 
He sat with his back to the prt^icher, so I 
Could not, if I would, fail to underst \nd why 
He sat in the front of the choir tliis a.m., 
And glancixl so (>ersistently at me. But then. 



STOLRS^ WATERS 6t 

Although, as I said once before, in his look 

There whs t'ousoiousnoss plain, even that I could t^itxik, 

As long tks no triumph blent with it. And I 

Must acknowledge I could not, indeed, should I try, 

Tike the slightest offence at his actions, or feel 

Iliat any desire I need have to conceal 

My identity longer from him. For if pleased 

And conscious he looked, j\nd convinced, yet, at least, 

There was nochii\g but sweetness expi-essed in his fkofr-^ 

And of triumph or sarcasm never a trace. 

This was last night's " event," and was also a part 
Of tiviiay's '* observation," which rendei-ed my heart 
And thoughts much more troubled than ever before. 
" Never singly misfoi-tunes do come." I was more 
,Ajmioyed at his guessing than I have expi*essed. 
And ere I to that became ivconciled, pressed 
On my heart was another and far deeper cause 
For trouble, vexation, regi-et ! And this was — 
But drst, I must go biick a very short time. 
To a trifling occurrence, which made on my mind 
At the moment no sort of impression, I think, 
And yet, has, it seems, proved to be the lirst link 
In the chain of events which fii*st made me snspeol 
What now I am sure of. I don't recollect 
Exactly how long, but a few weeks ago, 
My Sabbath-school teacher was absent, and sOj 
With exception of one or two, all of the class, 
And the superintendent to me came to ask 
If I would a class please to teach for the sesadoB? 
He*d tttke no refusal, so I took ^>ossd8sian 



70 STOLEN WATERti. 

Of a small class of boys near my own.: They wen 3^ 
\ think, of about twelve or thirteen. I had 
In Tn ^rlnng the class-book, to ask them their names — 
Thero were two little boys there whose names were tiM 

same 
Ihat my Antony's is ; and then, not alone that, 
But they on the same street resided, in fact, 
Or one of them, rather, the other boy being 
A cousin from out of town ; both, though agreeing 
Sufficient in manner and look to be brothers ; 
Were attentive and quiet, while all of the others 
Were restless extremely and vexing. They, too. 
Were very intelligent, and, it is true, 
I took quite a fancy to both, and yet, 1 
Never dreamed that they could be related to my 
Antony, notwithstanding that both street and name 
Were aUke. Still, I think this will not seem so strange. 
When I say there are several more of the same 
Name in church. And siace then I have seen many times 
The same boy in the seat abreast nearly of mine, 
With a fresh, fair-faced lady appearing to be 
His mother ; though very young-looking is she. 
To claim such a large boy as son 

Well, now I 
Have heard, more than one time of late, by the by. 
That my friend Antony was a married man ; yet 
The report I have never considered correct, 
For various reasons. And first, as the scurco 
From which it had come was not trusty, of coiint 
I could not a story believe which was told 
With vagueness and doubt. To be sinre he is old 



RTOLEN WATERS. Tl 

mgh to have been some years married; bul then 
One never can judge of the age of such men 
As he is. To look at his face, one would say 
It was one that wo\ild never grow old, and to-day 
He might be twenty-five, and from there all the way 
To forty, or forty-five, even. Beside 
AK this, too, although to the same church have I 
Every Sabbath been, nearly a whole year or more, 
I have never seen with him, not either before 
Or after the service, one lady. And so 
*Tifl no wonder I doubted his marriage, I know. 

I was early this morn, and I reached there before 
My Antony did ; but the vestibule door 
By some chance was left open ; and when he came ir 
The boy I have spoken about was with him. 
The door being directly in front, too, of me, 
Of course when they entered, I could not but see 
Them both very plainly. Alike, much, forsooth, 
In form, not in face, were those two, man and youth* 
At my first glance at them, the entire bitter truth 
Flashed over my mind in a trice. This and that 
Put together had quickly resolved into fact 
"What I'd given no thought to before. I then knew 
How thoroughly blind I'd been all the way through. 

You must know, my dear Journal, the sermon to-daj 
May have been Greek or Hebrew, for all Zcan say — 
That not much of it entered my mind. Howe'er well 
It may have been written or rendered, it fell 
In my case on unheeding ears. Take all that, 
With the just acquired knowledge that he was in £u3t 



7S STOLEN fVATESa. 

At lengt). satisiied who was his Bitter-Sweet ; 

And not this alone, but within a few feet 

He was sitting, his handsome face, tender and grukd^ 

Bo'jatetimes turned to me, sometimes bent on his hand, 

III a reverie sweet and profound. And I could 

Kct have doubted of whom he then thought, if I wou«d 

Then his soft, tender, smiling, and passionate eye 

Constantly sought my own. Do you wonder that I, 

My dear Journal, quite failed in controlling my heart, 

Or the flush on my cheek? That I felt the blood start 

Through the swift op'ning valves and pulsate through mj 

frame 
With rapid and thrilling vibrations, 'till brain 
Was reeling, confused, my brow throbbing with pain, 
And my thoughts in a tumult which it would be vain 
To attempt to describe ? 

I was glad to reach home, 
And at last find myself in my sanctum alone. 
Well ! the first thing I did was to sit down and writ* 
A reply to the note I had from him last night. 
And in the first place did my best to dispel 
His ideas about my identity. Well, 
Told him plainly, in fact, I thought he did not know 
Me at all (an excusable falsehood, although, 
I am certain) ; and then, somewhat shortly, I fear— 
Couldn't help it, though, actress I'm not, it is dear — 
I asked him how he should suppose I could know 
If mine were the blue eyes he mentioned, or no. 
And presumed there were many a pair, too, that looked 
That way, when he sang ; but that if on his book 
HIb were placed as they should be, he'd not be aware 
How many looked at him. Then asked him right 



STOLEN WATERS. TB 

To make some amends for my crossness, yon eeOi 

And also to see what he'd answer — if he 

Could a place for a meeting appoint, if a time 

1 should mention. And as to that hair ring of mine, 

I said he should see it, half promised also 

He should help me the pattern select. He will knoT 

It is all idle words, I presume. And I then 

Asked saucily what he had read this a.m. 

Now I wanted to introduce, too, in some way, 

The discovery which I this morning had made, 

Ascertaining thus if my suspicions were true 

In regard to it. And, though I pretty well knew 

He would tell me the truth if T asked him outright, 

Yet I did not know but it possibly might 

Be best to assume that I already know 

What indeed I am hardly assured of. And so 

As follows I wrote : 

" Do you think it would be 
Safe, entii'ely — a meeting between you and me ? 
Or am I mistaken in thinking that you 
Are a * Benedict ' Antony? Please tell me true. 
But I'm certain I'm not — think I know, too, by sights 
Your wife and your boy — and I'm sure I am right. 
Does she know of our correspondence ? To-day 
I fancied a little she did. Does she ? Say ! " 

J don't recollect what besides this I wrote ; 
Nothing more, I presume, that is worthy of note. 
What a day this has been ! Looking back now it seemi 
Like A long, ever-changing, a vague, troubled dream. 
And my mind is yet quite too confused to resolve. 
Into aught that's dke order, the thoughts that reTolre, 
4 



T4 STOLEN WATBBB, 

In such entire ciiaos through it, and restraint 

Or control 'twould be \ain to attempt. Pve a fidnt 

Sense of feeling regret that I ever had sent 

My first letter to him, and that ever I went 

To service at that church, or ever saw him, 

And some indignation that I had not been 

Informed of all this weeks ago. And then, too, 

There's a slight thread of deep disappointment runs throng 

The whole warp and woof of my miad and my thoughts- 

Disappoiatment in both; in myself, that I sought 

Any method to know him that custom denied. 

Disappointment in him, that he ever replied 

To the first note I sent him. And yet, there are few 

Men in this age who would not, I fancy. And, too. 

He supposed certainly from the first that I knew 

All there was to be told. As I boastingly wrote 

That I knew all about him, in my second note; 

And so, he is not much to blame, after all, 

And 'tis useless to mourn what I cannot recall. 

No service this evening in church ; no one went 
Out at all, I believe ; and, as for me, I have spent 
The entire evening here in my room, all alone 
With ir~ thoughts and my journal ; and though I must «>wa 
I have not exceedingly happy been here. 
More so elsewhere I could not have been. 

But I few 
My sleep wiQ be broken. Must stop, and in bed 
Try 'And rest for a w'lile aching heart, weary htmAm 



STOLEN WATEBa. 7i 



December ^th, 1863. 



WEDNESDAY. 



Good evening, my Journal I I come here onc« more 
To my sanctum, with drawn shades and tightly Ciosed <i(Mmk 
And bright light, and warm fire, with the table before. 
With drawings, and papers, and books littered o'er ; 
And I'll draw up my chair, and will snugly ensconce 
Myself in its depths, and forget for the nonce 
All the cold world without ; will forget all but you, 
My dear Journal, my trusty friend, confidante, too, 
All but you, and the one I am writing of here — 
And events of the last day or two. 

First, my dear, 
You must know that my cousin and I yesterday 
Went a visit to pay, and one which, by the way, 
Has been promised for long. 'Twas to Jersey we went. 
To spend the whole day, although with the intent 
Of coming back home before night. We'd a gay, 
Pleasant time. Left for home rather late, on the way 
Passed my Antony's store, and saw he was not in, 
And we did not enter. "Well I I had not been 
At home very long ere some young people called 
From over the way, and were here nearly all 
Of the rest of the eve. 

Lorette came home with fub^ 
Stayed all night, and to-day I went over to B, 
With her for my letter. I felt rather more 
Impatient to have it than ever before. 



76 STOLEN WATEBS. 

Asa matter of course. I have more than a few 
Correspondents, both ladies and gentlemen, too ; 
But somehow, I think that no letters I ever 
Ftom others received could afford half the pleasure 
lliat his have ; I'm sure, though I cannot tell why. 
The Colonel's are quite as well written, and I 
No reason can see why his should be so much 
More pleasing than others, unless 'tis the touch 
Of strangeness and mischief, and mystery, too, 
That gives them their charm. 

It has been, it is tme, 
Very fine amusement for me all the way through, 
To receive all these letters, and know just the source 
They came from, while certain that he knew, of course, 
Of me nothing at all. And then church to attend, 
From Sabbath to Sabbath, to watch him, and then 
Be sure that he could not, however much he 
Should desire to know who his unknown friend mig^t be l 
That however he might have examined the face 
Of each lady in church in her relative place. 
That out of so many he could not select 
The one who was in all his thoughts, I suspect, 
Whether singing, or sitting so quiet within 
The alcove's far " corner " secluded and dim, 
As I said, I believe that I never have been 
More desirous of having a letter from him. 
More impatient for time to pass rapidly by. 
And bring me the anxiously wished-for reply 
To my last note to him, and the questions contained 
Within it 

To fedl one must carelessness feigD 



STOLEN WATSm, 77 

Wlieii burning with restless impatience wiioiB, 

May te, veiy possibly, good discipline 

For the heart and the soul, but makes sad work with tempfll 

^d nerves I am certain. At least I may venture 

To say 'tis with me thus ; suspense I cannot 

And never could calmly endure ; and then, what 

Perhaps made me more anxious than ever to get 

His letter to-day, was, the tinge of regret 

That must linger around all our intercourse, past 

Or to come. That must break all the bonds, first or last. 

That now bind us together ; and make us again 

What in fact we are yet, and we still must remain — 

Strangers, now and forever. It had, too, one more 

Charm — his letter expected — than any before 

Have possessed. The one, too, that all daughters of Eve, 

Who the dangerous charm have desired to receive, 

Have found, to their cost, its poasession replete 

With anguish and pain. " Stolen waters are sweet.^^ 

{Bitter-Sweet, it should have been), and those who would 

drink 
Of the bitter-sweet potion ought never to shrink 
From the taste of the dregs they are certain to find 
^eath the sparkle and foam. 

We left home about niuA, 
And when Brooklyn we reached found the Carrier lial 

been 
But a moment before, and a letter from him 
Lay on the hall-table awaiting B. S. 
I was not very sorry to find it, I guess, 
And 'twas opened and contents perused in a trioew 
Twas not rery long, and not nearly as nice 



T8 STOLEN WATERS. 

Am the last one, I think ; lut of course he*d not 

With as much w armth and pleasantness quite, as he iiii|{M 

If I had not written so crossly in mine. 

So IVe only myself to find fault with, this time. 

"Twas written, indeed, with no little discreetness 

And prudence — began thus : " Antonian Sweetneas l" 

And very soon after commencing he wrote — 

" The pair of ' blue eyes * of which lately I spoke 

I have met very often upturned to my own. 

But more summers than nineteen o^er that head has flown. 

And I at the time was not singing. Did not 

Read at all Sabbath morn ; with my own pleasant thought! 

1 communed. I'm indeed very glad I'm to see 

The ring when you get it ! You dare not let me 

Help the pattern select, though." 

And then farther on : 
" I believe that my caution is not wholly gone. 
But must say I feel safe certainly." And again : 
" But when I shall realize all the sweet strains 
Of poetry sent, I can then talk much more 
Of safety than I can with ease write before. 
Vou are not mistaken in fancying me 
To be married, my Bitter-Sweet I How could you be, 
If the family you know by sight, as you said ? 
And farther, the party does not know, as yet. 
Anything about this correspondence." Then saya, 
•* If you shall a time appoint, I can a place.'* 

I felt rather ve^ed that in this he should sent 
A poem from Byix)u. I don't think he meant 
Any insult; 'twas not, though, I fancied, just whaM 
k. gentleman should to a lady send — thought 



STOLEN WATEBA 71 

I would write a rebuke in my answer. Ile'll not 

Bend m© any more like it, I think. But 1 ought, 

As 1 wrote him, perhaps have expected naught bcitef ) 

But I did, and I told him thaty too, in my letter, 

TVaj of course, standard, quite, and I doubt not that k« 

Never thought of oiloudiug, by sending to me. 

My rebuke, though decided, was gentle, I hope. 

At the end of the poem he copied he wrote, 

" No fai'thor deponent doth say, at the pi-esent. 

But like most of our popular stories — and pleasant 

Some think, I suppose, as so mtmy read them — 

This is also * continued * to be !" But yet, send 

The i-est think he will not. Then writes at the close, 

" I shall go the next Sabbath to church, I suppose, 

And there in my ^ corner ' shall think, think of one 

Who is as far from me, because yet unknown. 

As the centre is from the cii'cumf Vence— my own 1" 

Then in closing he says, 

" 1 suppose you will get 
This to-morrow, and then I shall also expect 
To hear from B. S. again one of these fine 
Days I And so keep thy coiuisel and 1 shall keep mine; 
'Thai is ' entre-nous.' 

" Ever thine, 

"'Antonj.*'' 

I remained all tiie rest of the day o*er to B., 
And answere<l his letter before I came home. 
I can't give a copy, because I kept none, 
But my note was more pleasing than was the last one. 
I said I was sure that I knew who he thought 
His Bitter-Sl^eift ras /l>«na ^ ^ext asked him whal 



80 STOJJC^W W'ATKHai 

Wu* tlio htvlo of hor hat, how Kho woro Lw Lair «1iv«8M^ 

Ami why ho \\i\d ohiKsoii ouo oni of tho i\\st 
Who WA8 luoiv than uinotivn, whoii 1 toUl hiin before 
That tliftt NViu^ my a:;o, jxist uiui^tivn aiul no mora. 
Thou as fi>lli.>vs I wivto , 

** I tJiOiujht you diii not nMid 
Vtxry much tlu> h\st. Sjiblvitii ; but did tlunv, imltHnl, 
Any fti//<^ c\>miH^to with tho ^itYt^t in your thoughts? 
Or woix^ thoy with unaUoyoil iluUntudo fraught V 
Thtui in imswor io what ho had sjviil of tho riiig^ 
Ai\d appoint mont, I wroto, 

•» I (/<j;v do anything 
But mivt yoti, my Antony ! I am not quit^e 
So fvH>Ush, I think, if I judgt^ n\ysolf right. 
As t<> i>l;u-o uiNsi^lf yot in NvUir |\>n\ or outiro ; 
And so you oa.n't hlaiuo mo if I shall inquiix^ 
Whoiv tho/>/<uY may Iv, oiv I shall n\ontion tho fiivM, 
Aaui tluxn wx> will * think of it,' Aiitouy miitol 
Should you liko mo luiwh lH>ttor, think you, my dtxar friend 
If you know who I am? And would you till tlio end 
iK two months to oomo ho quito willing io wnit 
Kiv you siv mo, if I tioho tho mystory gi\>iit?" 
Thtui I iUsktHl him if t iivd lir »^aii vvmiug to l>e 
i)f our i\>ru\spvnulo.uot> ! A nil IioihhI ho'd >rrite me 
If that wius tlu> oaso. This I s;iid I holiove 
Just aftor tho vvusmv I \vrott\ Oh I somo lt>HT«»— 
FVagi-:uit laavos fi\nn my cousin's gmunium - -1 
Thou gathoivd ; svuuo ihiiuty whito ribKni to tie 
WitJi a ♦* trut>-Unor*a knot'" tho swivt U>:»viv^, I then sent 
IV'ir lA>rt^tto tv> hor i\H>m to soarvrh for. and sl\o wwit, 
NVhilo I wivto in my lottoi -" I send you »ome lettve^ 
m kim hid within 1 "' 



mVlJSN WATERJS. 81 

And that wan, I beliere, 
About all that I wrote, or at loa«t all that I 
Now remtMulK>r. No coinmoiiLs must I, by the by, 
M&ko thia ovoiiing — it's gottiiig so hito, just as ever; 
The next tiuio, my Joiiriud doar, I will endeavor 
To bo more entertaining. But somehow, to-uighi, 
A Uak it has been, and an eflbrt to write. 



December IZth, 1863 



SUNDAY, 



Hi© night is so cold, and is darksome and dreary, 
It rains, ivnd the wind soems to novor bo weary, 
Tlie trees toss without, in the bleak wintry blast 
Tlieir bare loalless branelies. Tlio ohill wind sweeps past 
Just now with a sigh, low ami mournful, juid then 
WitJi wild sobs, as of anguish, or deep, bitter pain, 
Tlien rises to moans and shrill shrit^ks of distress, 
Wliich, slowly subsiding, grow fitfully loss. 
And merge in low sighings once more. And the rain. 
Chill, drenching, and pitiless, sphushos the panes 
And keeps on the bjilcony just luulorneath 
A restless continual j>atter. The eve 
Breatlies but dampness, iliacomfort, aiul diirknoss; withia 
All is cheerfuhiess, soft light, and warmth. 

I have betui 
Bitting here in my sanctum a little time past, 
Asd trying to tJiink. But the turbulent blast. 



89 STOLBS WATSR& 

And the sound of the fksfc-fiilliiig rsun hiwe dis^ielletl 

All Qiv iliw-uns, whioli Nv^r*? Knli '* swvet and hanefoL" O^ 

well! t 

111 let thorn tdl go, and the gloom of the ni^t, 
ljid» i\ni&iug m\-^4t\ uiAe an etfort to vrrit«> 
Of events of the day, and the daN-« that have p&saed 
So fleetly, my Journal, s^iiiee chatting here kst 
A few e>'\^niiigs .sp.^ 

Well, last Friday, againy 
I t<.vk A ride over to Brvx^kKii; and vrhen 
1 arrivtxi tlu :v 1 t\nuui that Lotvtto whs alone. 
And sdie woi;Ui lun ^vt.vnt to my cv>mmg Kack home, 
At legist until night : so reu\aiuet.i tliere all day. 
And wv» did have a nioo, pleasant time, 1 must say. 
She M a dear girl, and I like hex so much I 
Pretty, graot.>tul, swwt-temjvreil, with just a slight toudi 
Of sarc5»sm and wit in her natuw ; as steel 
Tnw to those that slie love*, whether woe come or weal ; 
Obliging, atrtvtionato, cheeriul and sxnaei, 
In her nature so placid iuid calm there are deeps 
Of sym^vathy, jvassion, and thought only those 
Of the friends who Ivst know her ha>-^ ever suppo*^ 
To Iv hidden within her s^-jft he:\rt, 

I neeii not, 
1 presume, my dear ,loun\al, ntwl I ? mention what 
Oilleil me on-vt to Rn.x>klyn agsun, nor neeil I 
Assure you I »>-\^nt not iu v^vin. Indtwl, I 
CVui but say that my Antony k? very kind 
1R) write me so promptly. The one sont this time 
I fanciixl to W more than usually fine. 
And g*ve me much pUvasur^ Til gi>'^* here oompleit 
4. <^Yy — oommencii;^ — 

^ My own Bittg«v j) w i <6 4 1 



STOLEN WATERS. M 

•* How exceedingly promptly the mails Jo arrive, 
Ajid bring to us letters most welcome. And IVe 
Received yours this morning, \vitli scented sweets fiuught— 
Uow fnigi*ant they ai'e ! And what wonder I thought 
Them rendered, imleod^ JonhJy so, since they've been 
With a pair of sweet lips iu close contact. How, then, 
Could jT avoid having a tiistc of tliem, too? 
And I tlid so, in fancy at least, it is true, 
If not in reiility, seeming to lind 

With the leaves still some lingering sweetness combined. 
Of all the sweet phints, the geranium give me I 
Did I guess who the blue-eyed young lady might be ? 
I tliought tliat I asked might it be so and so. 
Wlio I thought that you were do you really know ? 
Well, who, dear B. S. ? You remember you said 
That nineteen bright summers hatl passed o'er youi head, 
But did not Siiy oidi/y or how many more. 
I thought from the fact of your saying before 
How much you had seen of the world, and then, that 
An innocent intrigue's your life — 1, in fact, 
Supposed you some older. At what age, indeed, 
Do young ladies commence on a life of intrigue ? 
I ciuuiot describe how she ih-cssos her hair, 
Or what is the style of the hat which she wears. 
My Bitter Sweet, how do you think that of these 
Ti'itiing things a poor fellow can think, when he sees 
A pair of soft, liquid, blue eyes looking through 
His very soul — while they appear to read, too, 
Sis innermost thoughts ? 

" The * French ' sentence I mi 
Will tell you I think that there was bitter blent 



84 STOLEN WATER& 

With the sweet in my thoughts. And could you dear B. B| 

Head that in my lace ? For you know you professed 

To do that in the very first letter you sent. 

* I da/re anything do but meet you ! ' Well 1 then 

Let me know who you are. I do not suppose you 

So foolish, my friend, as to place yourself too 

£ntire in my power, and therefore on me 

You can call, at my own place of business, you lee, 

In open day, just as all ladies may do, 

And be free, too, from any controlling />oioV. 

Mistake in supposing 1 did not believe 

What you wrote in the first letter from you receiyed. 

Believe you I did I but I cannot pass by 

That essential, fine quality, caution, which I 

Am sure, ' my own Bitter-Sweet,' you should admire 

In every person in whom you desire 

Or choose to confide. 

" Yes ! IshaU better far 
Like you, my dear friend, when I know who you 
And if you will tell me, I'll try, with content, 
For two months, or longer, to wait your consent 
To a meeting between us ; but I would much like 
The favor of looking at you, if &om quite 
A distance. 

" I must assure you, I regret 
The poem offended ; and though I have yet 
The rest of it written, I'll keep it at home. 
When I * weary of our correspondence ' beconne 
I will teU you at once. And I shall not offend 
Ton willingly, ever ; and hope to be then 



STOLEN WATERS. 8J 

For all past offences forgiven. I'm not 

Perhaps, my B. S., quite so bad as you thought 

And you do me injustice, too, I must protest, 

In saying you * might have expected no less I ' 

You certainly did not expect it to be — 

The poem — original, did you, with me ? 

I never have had that opinion extreme 

Of "wonieii that some profess — as will be seen 

In Posthumous tirade in Shakspeare's * CymbeJiiie,' 

And Dryden's translation of Juvenal's Satire 

On woman — an author that many admire. 

No ! my * cha/rity ' 's almost as vast in extent 

As the universe ; neither would I with intent 

Wound your feelings, believe me I And so I will keep 

* To be called for ' — the poetry — My Bitter-Sweet, 

Or to the Dead-Letter Office will transmit. 

** Is it not hitter cold to-day ? How sweet to mk 
Beside a good fire, listing to the chiU wind 
As it whistles without. I will not at this time 
Inflict on you any words further of mine. 
With one good inhalation from yowr fragrant leavei. 
Until the next time I trust you will believe 
I am still 

** Your own 

" Antony I 

"To Bitter Sweet" 

That waa all ! and I certainly need not repeat 
What I said once before : that not one I've reoeivei 
Has more pleasure afibrded than this. I believe 
rhere have been not a great many moments to-day 
Ibat k6 has been out of my thoughts. 

I mustflur 



S6 STOLEN WATSSS, 

I am pleased afc the way he received my reproof* 

And perhaps I did do him injustice. In truthy 

He has in lai:ge measure one virtue most rare 

In this weak sinful world, if all else that is fair 

And good, he is wanting in. Sweet Cha/rityy 

That no evil doth think ! Of the fair, divine thret. 

The rarest and greatest is sweet Charity 1 

I gue(3S he is not such a very bad boy, 

After all ! And so that afternoon was employed^ 

A part of it, writing an answer to his. 

And I mailed it ere I returned home. But it is 

Impossible that I should now recollect 

What I wrote in reply to his letter, except 

That I gave him some hopes of receiving next time 

My name and address. 

I've not made up my mind 
If I'll in reality tell him or not. 
I think that I shall — weU ! I hardly know what 
I shall do I I have not at any time thought 
I should tell him at all. I suppose that I ought 
Not have led hun to think I would some time diflcloM 
What I firmly believe that he pretty well knows 
Even now, were it not my intent to do so. 
And it certainly was not. But then — I don't know 
But somehow one thing and another has led 
Me to say what perhaps I ought never have said^ 
And promise much more th.an I meant to fulfil. 
Or perhaps than I mean even yet to do. Still, 
It seems hardly fair, or just either, to him, 
To cheat him like this ; for he's certainly been 
Mosi kind and most generous all the way tkroi|^ 



STOLEN WATERS 81 

And 1 want to be quite as honorable, too, 

So I really scarcely know what I will do. 

And then, there is still one more motive, more gtrong^ 

Perhaps, than all others, which I have been long 

Only half-conscious of in my innermost soul, 

But which, nevertheless, has through nearly the whole 

Of our correspondence so long, been the power 

By which I've been led day by day, hour by hour, 

'Till I am where I am. And that strong motive is 

A desire just for once to place my hand in hia, 

To listen just once to his soft, tender tones, 

In kind words intended for my ear alone. 

Just for once, possibly, to be clasped to his breast, 

** With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest ! " 

Only just for a moment ! — Is it very wrong ? 

'Twould be something to think of through all my life long. 

'Twould be, I suppose, hungry heart satisfied 

With sweet fruit from the tree that's forbidden, supplied ; 

Raging thirst quenched by sweet " stolen waters ^'^ whicli 

flow 
From a fountain that hides depths most bitter below. 
Oh ! one other thing I remember I wrote — 
That is, in the answer I sent to his note — 
And that was to try the next Sabbath and see 
If he could not discover who B. S. might be. 
I brought from Lorette's some geranium leaves 
To carry to church to-day, morning or eve, 
Intending to let him observe them, while I 
Bhould note the efiect in his face. By the by, 
£ believe he possesses a quite tell-tale face. 

Well ! this forenoon found me in my usual plaM 



SS bTOLBN WATEB& 

In eiiurcii, and he aho in his. I forgot 

This morning to carry my leaves, so did not. 

Of course, my experiment try. Mr. S. 

Annoiinced this a.m. that by special request 

He intended this eve to the sermon repeat 

Delivered Thanksgiving day last. From vosf seat 

I listened, and raised to my Antony's face 

My eyes. At that moment he turned in his place 

And looked down at me. With a glance in which pluiB 

Was a consciousness, neither, I think, could restrainy 

Our eyes met, for an instant, then each turned away. 

So much for this morning ! 

It rained the whale daj, 
And was gloomy enough. But I did not stay home 
This evening, and father and I went alone. 
Just before service opened, my Antony came 
To the front, with some music ; and then he remained 
There for some Kttle time ; and I raised from my book. 
Where they rested, the leaves to my lips, and then looked 
With full, steady glance in the eyes that were bent 
That moment on me. The act told, as I meant 
That it should do I The light was quite strong, and Um 



Between us was short. From my book to my face 

His eyes my hand followed, and as the sweet leaves 

Touched my lips, and he saw what I held, I believe 

A change more decided, and sudden, and plain, 

And transforming, too, o'er a man's face never came 

Than at that moment swept over his. In my eyes 

He looked with a full, searching glance. Slight surprise^ 

Satisfaction, and wonder, and pleasure, expressed 

In the soft, lustrovji depths of his own. While compreaa>4 



STOLEN WATERS. 99 

Were his lips, very slightly, in efforts moet nun 
To hide the emotion, betrayed yet so plain, 
In flushed cheek, and dark, sparkling eye. 

A» for me, 
I was, I beKeve, so desirous to see 
The effect of my act upon him, I did not 
My own agitation give one moment's thought, 
Or make^ then, the slightest attempt to control 
My heart or my face. And I doubt not the whole 
Confirmation of all he would know he could read 
In my swift-changing cheek, tell-tale eye, and, indeed. 
More than all, in the sweet leaves I held. 

It all passed 
In a moment, and he turned away, too, at last. 
To his seat in the " comer." And how I would like 
To know what he thought, as, with back to the light 
He waited the signal to sing. 

Well! to-night. 
All during the sermon, he sat quite in front. 
And Twt in the " comer " as he has been wont. 
But he sat looking toward the preacher, this time. 
But frequently glancing from his face to. mine. 
And during the last prayer abruptly he turned 
And looked down full at me. How my foolish cheek 

burned! 
'Neath his glances so earnest, and thrilling, and sweet I 
My eyes faltered and drooped, quite unable to meet 
The passion in his, as with head on his hand 
He sat motionless quite, I thought looking more grand 
And handsome than ever before. The soft light 
In his fine speaking eye, new, to me at least, quite 



90 STOLEN WATSB& 

Aud KEohri on his lips, both of whi;h added mach 
To his evei>fine face, would have given a touch 
Of beaut J and sweetness to one that was plain, 
A ad his made exquisitely pleasing. 'Twere vain 
To think that he was not enlightened. He knows 
His Bitter-Sweet well enough now, I suppose. 
I'm impatient to ha>e his next letter, and see 
AVTiat he'll write about it. 

I some notes took of the 
Fine (?) sermon, this evening, and wrote to him too. 
He looked down and saw me ! Will that be a clue, 
When he sees how 'tis dated — " In Church, Sunday Eve"f- 
To induce him with more firmness still to believe 
That I'm his unknown correspondent ? 

Mj leaves 
I left in my book at church. 

Hark ! it still rains, 
Ajid the chill wind still rattles and beats at the pane*. 
The night slowly wanes, and is " cold, dark, and dreary/ 
And of writing and thinking, I am, oh, so weary I 



Decmtiber Ibthy 1863, 

TUESDAY. 

It is evening again, and once more I am here 
For a nice little confab with you, Journal dear. 
Ere 1 seek the repose I am conscious I need. 
And I ought to do so at this moment, indeed I 
My watch I will place very close to the spot 
Where my book lies, and when it is twelve I will 



To-<i«y we oxptH.'t<^tl from Joi-sey some friends, 

But they faileti to appoar. But Lorette this IM. 

Oaiuo over tiiul brought mo a letter agiuu 

Fn>m him, my *' own Autouy.'* Ami I was glad 

To gt^t it. But, somehow, I always am sad 

AfttT ha>Hng a letter fivm him. I eaimot, 

I aiu »uro, give the reason for it. My tirst thoughts 

Art< ever most i)U>astvnt and sweet, I must own, 

Though the sweet soou dies out, and the bitter alone 

Kemaius ot' the stolen dnvnght. 

^otes from him 1 
Rt'^il tigiiin and tigiiin, besiiles ktx^piiig them by 
Me the whole time, each one, till the next one arriy«A; 
Yet, though they are all I desire, all the time 
iVly spirits ai*o very uuetu-taiu, i fuid. 
For instance, one day they^-e remiu-kably fine 
(Most often the day that his notes are ivceived), 
And the next even indigo \l make, 1 Mieve, 
A white murk upon me. And, too, this stftte of miuii. 
Or temper, or heart, or whatever, in tine. 
It dt\serves to W called, has been coustiuitly mine, 
And not only of late, but through all of the time 
Very uciU'ly of our cori'ospoi\ileuce. Tve found 
'• The luvtwt auiiiot alwnys control, or (wcount 
For the ftvlings which sway it." And also must own 
" That I think, as I swing on the gjxto heiv tvlone. 
How the sweetness of horehonnd will soon all die out. 
While the hitter still keeps or. tind en ! " 

WeU, Aboil* 
His letter, which lies here this monif^it by me : 
lirrt — " Sunday, December loth, *03, 



W STOLEN WATEHS 

In the * corner ,' '• was how it was dated. I thought 
Ic quite a coinciaence — aiid was it not? — 
That he should that mormng have written to me 
In church, and then I, who of course did not see 
Or dream of his having done any such thing, 
Should that very same evening have written to Mm, 
And I also, in church. I can give here to-night 
A few extracts alone. In one place thus he writes : 
" What an unpleasant day ! yet it may not be quite 
So to those who have hearts that are careless and li^t. 
Where are you to-day ? Why do I not see you here 
This morning at service as usual, my dear ? " 
(Just as if he had not known so well I was there I 
Dissembler I that I, too, was sitting right where. 
Every time that he bent slightly forward, and raised 
From his book or his paper his fine eye, my face 
Was almost the first thing arresting his gaze.) 
And then he went on : 

" We shall have once again 
This evening the Thanksgiving sermon, my friend. 
And you cannot relish that much, I suppose ; 
But then, if ifye do not, it seems there are those 
Who do, as it is by especial request 
The reverend this eyening repeats it." 

The rest 
Of that page, and a part of the next, is of no 
Especial importance, so let it all go. 
Near the end of the third page he writes — 

"DoDOi 
To com« in and see me, for if I'm not here 
A lady most certainly never need be 
At a low foi excuses for entering the 



Ptiblic storfs, tuiil Nvhix'Ii huiuln>ils habit uallj 
Art' vitxitiug, !Si> thoii'\s no ix^usou, yon soo. 
My Uittor-Swtvt, why you inu't I'tiH \i\'>on mo. 
No I I'm not gotting Nvoiuy, Ih4u>vi> mo you will, 
Of ivndiui; yi>nr Kntoi-s, but look t"or thorn still 
W^ith t\ gn at iloal o( |>loasurt>, uiul hopo niul oxj><?»ot 
Tho favor io liavo o( rx\*oiYii»i; tho uo\t 
With tho kuowloilgo of your tnitin> nauu>/* 

Thou ho 8»yt, 
*• Prayoi* now ha.s oouuuoui'Oil ! 1 must st<>p, my l>. S , 
Vou will brtvo ditVumlty in roailiug, I gut^ss, 
This lottor, svml timl but rt littlo, 1 four. 
To amuso, or inst nu-t, or lo bonotit horo ; 
But ivntioipato i>uo froui nu\ ono oi' thoso ilays, 
Souiowhat bc^tlor." 

I thiuk rvi> t'lMgottou io Siiy 
This Wiks writton in ponoil ; in ink, thon, ho writ<w: 
** Monday. —How it ihu^s ram ! is it not enough, quit<€^ 
To givo ono tho ' bUu>s'? ami tho sormon last night 
Might porhaps bo tho moans of assisting it, too ; 
Might it not, my iloar friond ? Ov how is it with you? 
But I can this morning iio notliing but mopo, 
And writing is out of tho i|uostitm, I hopo 
To ht»ivr from you soon, anil am 

** Kvor your owix 

*♦ Antoa^, 
" To my Bittor-Swoot ! " 

I might Imvo known 
He'd not say a word in this lot tor of what 
Ha Siiw Sunday ovo, thougli I know ho oanuot 
Help but Ih> protty suro who his Inttor-Swieet im. 
But he mAde a slight guo««s iii one letter of hi% 



94 STOLEN WATERS. 

And 1 answered so crossly he thinks he will let 
Me tell him the whole, when he knows, I expect. 
I wrote him at twilight before Lorette went, 
Although rather briefly, but with it I sent 
I'he note I had written iu church, Sunday eve, 
And which he to-morrow forenoon should receiTOi 
Upstairs I had just come, I wrote him, to find 
A pattern ; and, stealing a moment of time 
(Notwithstanding I'd visitors waiting below), 
On the floor of my sanctum was then sitting low, 
And, close by the window, was trying to write 
A few lines to him by the fast-fading light. 
I sent him the wished-for address at the close, 
Though I told him above he would not, I suppoeedj 
If I told him my name, know me then any better 
Than he would do before the receipt of my letter. 
As he said he ne'er knew how a lady was dressed^ 
I did not see how I could tell him the rest. 
And then, just to tease him, I asked him when he ' 
Expected to know who I am — what of me 
He thought. Also wrote that to service I went 
On last Sabbath morning as usual ; and sent 
At the close of the letter my love to my friend, 
I shall look for his answer on Thursday A.M. 
I am glad I have not any longer to go 
All the way o'er to B. for his letters, although 
He has been very kind indeed, always to write 
Just when I requested, and so that I might 
Qave never to go there in vain. 

WeU, to-night 
My brother and wife were in town, and here, too, 
To dinnei this evening. Just twelve I I am throuj^ 



STOLEN WATSm. 
December 17 thy 1863. 

THURSDAY. 

How stormy a day ! from the earliest dawr 
II16 clouds have bent low, swiftly showering doim 
The soft, fleecy snow-flakes. All nature around 
Seems just to have donned a fresh mantle of white, 
Soepothssly pure, and so downy and light — 
So dazzlingly lovely, this " beautiful snow" — 
The air filling all, shrouding all things below, 
With a soft-falling vesture more dainty and fair 
Than any fine lady can e'er hope to wear. 
Yet this white, vestal raiment, unsullied by aught 
Unlovely or tainting — oh, what a sad thought ! 
This snow that's " so pure when it falls from the sky^ 
Must be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by, 
Must be trampled and tracked by the thousands of fwel^ 
Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street." 

This day has been one of sensations, to me 
Rather new and peculiar; have half seemed to be 
In a sweet, happy dream all day long. I presume 
My spirits will be at their lowest ebb soon, 
Quite likely to-morrow. There always must be 
With them a reaction ; and one day to me 
Of light-hearted joyousness, pleasure, and glee, 
Is sure to result in depression and gloom ; 
Anc this no exception will be, I presume. 
By halves I do nothing ; and when I am gtj 
No one can be livelier ; and, I must say. 



M STOLEN WATERS. 

That when I'm depressed, no one ever could be 
In the depths of despondency lower than me ; 
And it takes such a slight, such a small, trifling thiag 
To make me unhappy, on one hand, or bring 
k fimile to my lips, and a light to my eye- 
Joy and glee to my heart. 

Yery happy was I 
To perceive it to be in the usual clear 
And well-known handwriting of Antony dear 
The note was addressed which was handed to mey 
When I this forenoon the door opened to see 
The carrier there in the pitiless storm — 
The feathery snow-flakes all over his form 
So lavishly showered — he looked almost like 
A snow-bank himself. With unusual delight 
I ran in the parlor at once with my note, 
To read, all alone, what my Antony wrote. 
He's getting impatient, despondent, some, too ! 
And I cannot wonder much at it, 'tis true. 
I have kept him now quite a long time in suspenit 
H^d no little amusement at his sole expense. 
But patient he's been, indeed, nevertheless; 
Much more so than I should have been, I confess; 
And he does well deserve the reward, I must say, 
Which he'll get with the letter I wrote bim to-daj. 
But first I've a few words to say of his note ; 
Twas not very long, and I fancied he wrote 
A little despondingly, as I believe 
I have said once before. First he writes : 

yours this morning, and your address also with it, 
ibid shail govern myself in accordance therewith." 



'STOLEN WATERS. 97 

That is all that ho says about that. Next replies 
To some trifling inquiries I made, and then writes 
Shortly : 

" How can I tell, think you, when I expect 
To know you? To tell you the truth, I suspt)ct 
That I never shall know you at all, as I do 
Not have any means to find out, and as you 
Do not choose to inform me. And then, as to what 
I think of you — think that you wish — do you not? 
To have some amusement, occasionally. 
By a few letters writing, perhaps just to see 
What answers there may be returned. Possibly, 
That unsatisfactory oft they may be ; 
But you must remember that I am still quite 
In the dark, as to knowing to whom I now write. 
To-day I am feeling especially blue. 
But the reason for it cannot give ; and ccm you t 
I am pleased to find you are so punctual in your 
Attendance at church, my B. S., I am sure I 
But where do you sit, and what mean you to weai 
The next Sabbath morning if you should be there ? 
I hope that you had an agreeable seat 
On the floor of your * sanctum,' my own Bitter-Sweet, 
When writing to me. How would you, at the time, 
Have liked sorne one to lean on ? and did you then find 
The pattern you sought? Guess your friends mu«t have 

thought 
It took you a long time indeed, did they not ? " 
And then right after this quite abruptly he writes : 
" * And these are the questions I ask day and night, 
Must my soul never <mce taste such exqi^i^dte delight ? * *• 
S 



98 STOLEN WATERS. 

Then with sarcasm vriites, that he thinks i. indoMl 

Must be most entertaining his 1 3tters to read ; 

But should JTidge 'twould as much satisfaction bestow 

Some to read from an old letter-writer, as those 

Host brilliant effusions were never addressed 

To any one person, and must be confessed 

That his were to no one, or what was to him 

The same thing, an unknown. And then says in cloeAjig ' 

" But the fact is, that I can to-day nothing do 

But growl ; and for fear of inflicting on you 

More of this, my ill nature, will bid you adieu, 

With the kindest regards to my own Bitter-Sweet, 

Of 

"Your 

"Antony." 

Then enclosed were two neat 
New Year's cards ; and within the small plain space of ». « 
Was ^^ Antony " printed, and prettily done; 
The other was blank, and on that one I wiote 
^^ Sitter- Sweet,'''' and shall send it back with my next nota» 
I early this afternoon sat down to write 
A reply to his last, and intended to-night 
To mail it, but it was so stormy all day 
'Twas impossible I should go out. 

I must say 
That when I commenced I'd nc-* given one thought 
As to whether or not I should cell him of what 
He'd become so desirous to know. I well knew 
By the tone of his last that it never w< uld do 
To play with him longer ; and that I must write 
And give bim at once the entire truth outright; 



STOLEN WATERS. 9« 

Or write him no more. But they've now come to b©— 

His letters— almost necessary to me. 

At least I should miss them, oh 1 so very much, 

If I ceased to receive tLem. And therefore, with Buch 

A feeling or thought uppermost in my mind, 

When to write I began, is it, dear Journal mine, 

Any wonder that all scruples were for the time 

Swept completely aside, as with fond, eager hand, 

I raised to my lips the forbidden draught, and, 

While quaflSng the waters so sweet at the brim 

Of the cup, quite forgot that far down, deep within 

The dregs, I a bitter might find to be more 

Intense than in any glass I had before 

Attempted to drain ? 

So my Journal, you see, 
In the letter which lies on the table by me, 
"Signed, sealed," Tiot "delivered," my dear friend will ^ui^ 
His suspicions confirmed, and at last have his mind 
From all farther doubt and uncertainty free. 
How many a thought sent to me there will be 
Between the receipt of this note and the time 
For service on Sunday forenoon. As to mine — 
Oh I Tny thoughts are constantly with him, to-day. 
And all other days, in fact, now and alway. 
And I'm more impatient, too, than I can tell 
For next Sabbath morning's arrival. 

Oh, weU— 
The clock's striking ! hark 1 can it be it is twelve ? 
A few words of my letter, and then I am through. 
I wrote at some length, and quite charmingly, •'eoo^ 
I flatter myself! or I certainly meant 
It should be quite as pleasing as any I'd sent, 

L.ofC. 



100 STOLEN WATERS. 

I told him that 1 Had commenced "just for fun," 

This, our correspondence, some time since begua ; 

That I'd had no intentions, in fact, any time^ 

Notwithstanding my various promises^ fine, 

To allow him to have any knowledge of me 

He had not already ; that is, unless he 

Should himself ascertain who his B. S. might be, 

I thought hardly fair would it be, though, to him, 

To treat him like that, as he'd certainly been 

Very kind, and quite hon'rable all the way through ; 

Ajid so to his honor I'd trust in this, too. 

Then I told him what 'twas my intention to wear 

The next Sunday morning, and also just where 

I should sit — and that is, only one seat ahead 

Of Mrs. , his wife, at her right hand. Then said^^ 

" It will, of course, storm the next Sabbath, but I 
Shall be there." And so will he, too, by the by, 
[ imagine. 

I wrote I did have on the floor 
Of my " sanctum " an easy seat, when I before 
Wrote to him ; but I wovld have indeed greatly liked 
To had soTne one to lean 'ipon ; but, if it might 
Have been that the only one on whom I ca/re 
To lean for support had been present, that there 
No occasion would been for my writing. 

Oh, dear! 
I'm so very fatigued I must stop nov\r and here. 
And l«ave all the rest until next Sunday night, 
When perhaps I may have something pleasant to writa 



STOLEN WATBB8. 101 

Deoemher 20^, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Sabbath eTonlng once more, and it's now L&If past toB. 
Tt© been sitting right here for an hour, with my pen 
In my hand, and my journal wide open, upon 
Hie table before me, the day that's just gone 
Reviewing, and trying to bring into form 
Its events and emotions, in order to write 
With coherent distinctness of them here to-night — 
Of a day that has been one long dream of delight— 
This Sabbath, the twentieth day of December y 
Eighteen sixty-three 1 

But the fast-paling embers 
In the grate are now giving me warning, indeed, 
My writing to do with all possible speed, 
Or be left in the cold. And so I will proceed. 

When I wrote here last Thursday, I spoke of the storm 
Which was raging without, and the next (Friday) mom 
It had not much abated ; but, turning to rain. 
Made horrible travelling. I waited in vain, 
Ahnost the whole day, for a pleasanter state 
Of weather and walking, until 'twas so late 
I feared that if I should much longer delay, 
That he would not my letter receive yesterday. 
So with rubbers and water-proof nicely equipped, 
Regardless of rain or of slush, on my trip 
A. few blocks farther down at 'ength started to mail 
My last letter to hin^ that he might "oithout &il 



102 STOLEN WArJSSS, 

Receive it before this a.m. And aa there 

Is a post-office box near Ed. Vamey's store, ^hara 

I have often deposited letters before, 

T thought that to it I would trust just once more. 

I went in to see him a moment as I 

Wished to purchase some trifles — and passing right by. 

I don't like him, though, much, and his manner I think 

Is too tender by half, and I always, too, shrink 

From the touch of Ms hand, or the glance of his eye. 

And yet I am sure that I cannot tell why. 

I rarely shake hands with him, did, though, to-day, 

And he held mine so long that I di-ew it away 

Somewhat rudely, I fejir, did my errands as soon 

As I could and came home. And he thinks, I prosumey 

I am haughty and cold ; but I Ciinnot help it, 

And I should like him better, indeed, I admit. 

If he treated me somewhat less warmly. But there I 

Let him pass I 

This bright morning was brilliant and fidl 
As one could desire. Just a light depth of snow. 
Newly-fallen, quite covered the ice formed below. 
By the alternate storms of a few days ago. 
And gleamed purely white 'neath the warm, ardent glow 
Of the bright morning sim ; and like huge bridal loaves, 
In the Park the large flower-moimds temptingly rose. 
While the boughs overhead di'ooped beneath the soft weighl 
Of their dainty, translucent, and glittering freight. 
Not a cloud to be seen iu the whole lU'ch of blue 
Rendered perfect an otherwise exquisite view. 

Of course I was promptly at church this A.M., 
Aad my Antony. Gertrude went also, and wbflA 



STOLEN WATERS. 10 J 

From the rack she had taken a hymn book, I then 

Discovered what I had not noticed before — 

And tiien not until she was looking it o'er — 

A small piece of paper inserted between 

The leaves of the book. In a moment, I ween, 

It flashed o'er my mind what it was ; and I knew 

Very well that my Antony placed it there. Drew 

It forth, and I found my suspicions confirmed, 

For on one side 1 read " Bitter- Sweet,^^ and then turned 

And the same on the other side found written, too, 

Placed there at rehearsal last eve, I conclude. 

I think 'twas indeed scarcely marked by Gertrude : 

At least she said nothing about it. 

I placed 
The paper at once in my muff, at his face 
Glancing up, and he, too, was then looking at me^ 
But at once turned away, so I know not if he 
Had noticed my finding the paper or not. 
He sat at the front to-day, just as I thought 
And expected he'd do — both this morning and eve. 
But my pen can but fail to describe, I believe. 
What I then saw and felt if I make the attempt, 
I think I must own that I did not repent, 
Or do now, in the slightest degree, having sent 
In my last the desired information, which must 
Have been most gratifying to him ; and I trust 
As much pleasure gave him as I thought that it mighty 
To hope gave reality, putting to flight 
All doubt and suspicion. 

He did isA sit quite 
At the front of the choir either morning or night| 



104 STOLEN WAFERB. 

But sitting just so he could look down at me, 

With his face half in shadow, and half in light, he 

Sat leaned slightly forward, his cheek in his hand, 

EUs head resting sometimes 'gainst the pillar ao grand 

Which was close by his seat; his eye seeking my own 

With a glance from which all of the bitter had flown, 

And only the sweetness remained. And, indeed t 

His look volumes spoke ; in his face I could read 

A depth and intenseness of passion I ne'er, 

In my life, in another face saw. And whene'er 

I ventured to look in his fine speaking eye, 

So dark, deep, and lustrous with tenderness, my 

Foolish heart with its tremulous beatings almost 

Seemed its bounds to be bursting, while through it a host 

Of fancies both tender and sweet swiftly passed, 

Till cheek flushed and eye drooped 'neath his glances at laa«. 

To be again timidly raised, when I deemed 

I had courage to meet the soft love-light which beamed 

So plainly in his ; and shone over his face. 

And, leaving on every feature its trace, 

Rendered each of them, even the attitude, too. 

Mutely eloquent of the strong passion which threw 

Its charm over me as well, 'till in my own 

An answering sweetness and tenderness shone ; 

I trembled with rapture and every nerve thrilled 

With emotion I could not controlled had I willed. 

And which was too new, and too transient, toe sweet— 

A shadow of happiness much too complete, 

To cause me a moment's desire to repress, 

Or endeavor to check what gave me, I confess, 

Such intense and exquisite delight. So I quaffed 

With eagerness, reckless, impatient, great draughti 



tiTOLElS WATBR8. tOl 

Of th© tenderness, passion, or love, I were blind 
Not to read in the eye constantly seeking mine, 
While he motionless sat nearly all of the time 
Except when he sang. 

I have flirted before, 
Quite desp'rately also, as well as with more 
Than one gentleman, handsome and clever, refined. 
Intelligent too ; with large hearts, and fine minds, 
And who liked pretty well insignificant me. 
But yet, this I must say : that I never did see 
In any man's face so much passion expressed. 
As was written this morning, it must be confessed, 
So plainly in his, my dear friend's ; and I thought 
His had been very eloquent ere this, but naught 
To compare with its speaking to-day. 

Well! to-night 
He also was there, as I said, the same light 
Ln his eye that had shone there this noon, and as then, 
Soft eyes tww looked love to eyes speaking again. 
The evening was but a complete repetition 
Of to-day. In the same place he sat, same position, 
And sent to me glances as tenderly sweet. 
Which my eye just as vainly as then sought to meet 
With aught like composure. No thought did he seeiT' 
To have but for me ; and I, too, in a dream 
Of pleasure delicious gave all mine to him. 
Enshrining each smile my heart's chambers within. 
And paid to the sermon, I fear, little heed. 
Wicked girl that I am ! But how could I, indeed, 
Beneath such a spell, such a rain of soft looks, 
With before me a &ce liks a wide-open bcwk^ 



106 aTOLBN- WATERS. 

Written orer with passionate ardor, each page- - 

How could there aight else my attention engage t 

I suppose I amfh wicked — I know that I am ! 

Why am Jnot like others ? How is it I can 

With the usual routine be never content, 

The same commonplace, every-day, tame events? 

Why must I forever be looking beyond 

For something beside, and which when at last fouM 

Does not satisfy, but still urges me on 

To new aspirations, and new flights of hope 

Which in turn disappoint ? 

By the way, in my not*— 
The last one I sent — I requested he'd write 
Me a letter in church or to-day or to-night, 
And give it to me after service. No one 
But father and I went this eve, and alone 
Was he, too, " my own Antony''^ — ^^ahe " did not come 
This morning or evening. 

When service was o'er 
He hastened downstairs, and just outside the door 
He passed me — not stopping — but slipped in my hand — 
Which touched his one instant — a note, and then ran 
Down the street next the church, and I, too, hastened hom« 
Father went right downstairs, and I thus left alone 
Did not pause to remove hat or cloak, but beneath 
The dim light in the hall, I indeed scarcely breathed 
As with eager impatience I hastily read 
Its contents. 'Twas short, and it had at the head 
** Sunday mom, in the * corner ' I " Began in this waj : 
•* My own Bittei Sweet i 

" What a brijhi lovely dj^i 



STOLEN WATERS, 101 

STou have lost all your powers prophetic, forsooth ! 
Well, well 1 do my eyes now heboid you, in truth ? 
And have I been gazing indeed in the deeps 
Of the eyes soft, cerulean of my Bitter-Sweet ? " 
Then he told me that he had been readmg my face, 
And that a few lines strongly marked he could trace \ 
But his feeble brain could not endure it this time 
For a perfect analysis. But would some time 
Like to read it to me. Then abruptly he said 

" Behind Mrs. 's big hat why keep hiding your head ? 

Did you find anything between some of the leaves 
Of the psalm-book to-day ? 

"I suppose Christmas E^e 
I shall be here at church. Perhaps B. S. will, too. 
I wish I could get a good chance to with you 
Converse ! So you did intend, plainly, I see. 
To have some amusement, and disappoint me I 
You rogue 1 I shall give you a tiny-sized piece 
Of my mind when I see you. 

'^ The sermon has ceased, 
* Let us pray I ' 

«« Antony." 

Underneath he writes then, 
" I intended to give you this note this A.M. 
But did not have a chance." 

That is all, I believe ; 
And this, too, must finish my record this eve. 
For my fire has some time since entirely died out, 
I'm quite chilled, and have caught a severe sold^ no doubV 



108 STOLEN WATEJia. 

December 2idt, 1863. 

THUBSDAY. 

To-nigLt's Cliristmas Eve ! and to me it ham 
Quite a pleasant one, also. 

But first, I wrote him 
A letter on Monday, to ask if he thought 
To see me this afternoon he could come up — 
As I should be housekeeper. Ma at that time 
ExpectiQg to go up to T., changed her mind, 
However, and so the next day I was forced 
To write him that he must not come up, of course 
I asked and expected an answer to-day. 
But did not receive it ; but had yesterday 
A reply to my Monday's note, writing this way : 
" I think, without doubt, I'll be likely to go 
Up town the next Thursday p.m., and if so 
Perhaps find B. S." 

So it seems he would oonM 
If I had not written him not to. In one 
Place he says : 

" Are you really bitter^ or atoeeif 
Or both ? Which predominates ? Or are they 
Divided quite equally ? If so, are they 
Separately located, confined unto a 
Particular place, or are they diffused through 
The system, and so intermingled the two 
Fine properties cannot be separately 
DiHtinguished. Just possibly, now, I might be 



STOLEN WATERS, 101 

Enabled to answer the question — who knows ? — 
£f women, like apples, were eaten. Suppose 
Mo taking a bite out your cheek." 

He went on 
With much mor\3 in the same style, and then farther down 
Writes— 

** Christmas is coming ; the Eve will fin<j nk€ 
Btowed away in the comer.' 

Abruptly, then, he 
To a close brings his letter, by saying he's been 
Several times interrupted, and now was again 
Called off, so would close that he might get it in 
To the office that night. 

I have been this p.m. 
Down town — sister Fannie and I — got my ring, 
And really think it a quite pretty thing. 
( meant my dea/r friend should have been the first one 
To clasp in his own my hand with the ring on. 
But was foolish enough to have placed it on my 
Right hand, and a gentleman passing us by 
On Broadway, paused to speak, and ere I was awaz» 
I had been shaking hands with my brother. 

As there 
Was service in church to-night, all of us went ; 
Aly Antony too, was of course there, and sent ' 

Me many a glance, uiost impassioned and fond ; 
To each one of them all my hea ft could but respond 
In tremulous thrills of delight. Oh ! what power 
That man has o'er me ! Day by day, hour by honrt 
It seems to increase, and I wonder where li^ 
The magic ! Is it in the glance of his eyes, 






110 STOLEN WATERS. 

The smilo on his moutli, or the exquisite tone 

Of his iine voice, although heard in singing alone P 

Or is there a charm still more potent than all 

His soft smiles and fond looks ? The bewildering thcml! 

Which the tempter throws over us, when at qut feet, 

He kys the " forbidden fruit " lusciously sweet. 

Alas I I am fearful that charm is more deep, 

More entrancing, ecstatic, and powerful, too, 

Than all others can be. 'Tis, I fear, but too true. 

We're all nearly related to fair Mother Eve. 

Young and frail, she was only too easy deceived. 

Dragging down all her children in one fatal fall. 

Ah ! " The trail of the serpent is over us all." 

Eve, tempted, she yielded, and Adam when tried 

Proved that he'd no more strength than his lovely, weal 

bride. 
Then why should we hastily, rashly condemn 
Their children for faults they inherit from them ? 

Well I the voluntary which was given to-night 
Was, " I know my Redeemer doth live." It wau quite 
A nice thing in itself, and was rendered, I own, 
Exquisitely — sung by soprano alone. 
She stood somewhat back from the front of the choir, 
And with self-possessed grace, which I could but admire, 
She aang the whole piece, then a moment paused, when 
She had finished, as if about singing again. 
Slowly turning at last, glided back to her neat. 
While the tones of the organ, so low and so sweet, 
drew fainter and fainter, theiL slowly died out, 
Ufttil only the echo remained. IVe no doubt 



STOLEN WATERS. Ill 

There were few in the church could help feeling, to-night. 
That " music hath charms " I 

And the sermon was quite 
As find a one also as ever I've heard 
Mr, S. yet deliver ; I think not a word 
Was lost to my mind, notwithstanding, too, that 
A little way from me my Antony sat. 
All conspiring to render the evening to me 
Quite as pleasant as I could desire it to be. 
By the way, I did feel amused, somewhat, this eve, 
At what little Harry remarked (I believe 
I mentioned, some time since, my sister had come 
On from Boston — of course bringing also her son), 
And to-night Harry said, after we had come homSi 
" That man that was up in the choir looked at me 
Nearly all of the time ! " 

Little innocent ! he 
Took all to himself the sweet looks which were meant 
For Another— one who in return for them sent 
Looks as warmly impassioned. He never once thought 
There was greater attraction beside him than aught 
He could offer, to cause that deep, soft sparkling eye 
Bo often to turn toward us. 

By the by, 
I wrote a short note to my friend, just before 
I went out, to give him after service was o'er ; 
And succeeded in showing it to him, although 
None but him I think saw it. But Z needed no 
Stronger proof that he did, than the soft, but fiunt glow 
Which suffused his cheek instantly, also the quiek 
InteUigenoe beaming from eyes that a trick 



112 STOLEN WATERS. 

Have, I fancy, of playing the traitor to what 
Within his niin4 passes someumes. He is not 
Aware, I presume, what a traitorou& face 
He carries with him, or how plain I can trace 
In its changes, at times, his emotions and thoughtd 

I was nearly or quite half-way home, ere he caught 
Me and dext'rously slipped in my hand, as he passed, 
A note — and which proved the reply to my last, 
Which I looked for to-day — in return for the one 
He found in my hand. It was quietly done. 
And none of those with me I'm sure saw the act. 
He turned down the street we'd just passed, which in faet 
Was his own. 

And his letter was pleasant and kind, 
t commenced " My own Bitter- Sweet I " — this underlined « 
" Christmas Eve. In the * corner,' " 'twas dated, and on 
A small sheet of music was written. He found 
That he was mistaken in thinking, he said. 
That he had there some paper, and so must insteac 
Use this " National Hymn." He did not till this mom 
Have my letter, as he out of town had been gone, 
So in season for me to receive it to-day 
He could not reply. I've forgotten to say 
His letter with kind Christmas wishes began. 
He writes — 

" I imagine I noticed your hand 
This eve to your face ; and I thought it indeed 
Quite pretty, although too far off to perceive 
It very distinctly. Do you recollect 
Wliat Borneo says to the fiu'r Juliet, 



STOLEN WATERS 118 

Wben lie at the casement has just perceived her, 

In the scene in the garden ? < Oh, would that I were 

A gloTe on that hand, that 1 might touch that sheek !' " 

Then of various trifles he goes on to speak, 

And writes just at closing, 

" The young ladies wish 
To know what I'm writing. I tell them it is 
A love letter, and they are anxious to see. 
In your rear, rolling up her eyes here, is Mifie T,, 
As if she thought she could read mischief in me. 
And indeed I — 

" The sermon is now at an end. 
"Your 

" Antony." 

This little note from " my friend^ 
And written in pencil on " National Hymn," 
Creased in folding, and soiled slightly, too, having been 
Held some moments within his dear hand moist and warn 
Brings before we with such force the face and the form 
Of my dear, deadest friend, that it now almost see ms 
As if he were here in reality. Dreams 
From which I awaken to find I'm alone, 
That the charm of his dear — fancied — presence has flown^ 
To find there is now nothing left in my grasp 
But a piece of the most senseless paper ; yet clasped 
With fond warmth in the hand which in passing to-night 
For a moment touched his. 

Am I dreaming tho', quite f 
If I am not I should be, and so I must say, 
Ghrifltmas Eve, fare-thee-well, and good- night fa to-daj, 



114 STOLEN WATESa, 

December 27th, 1863. 

SUNDAY. 

Stayed home all day Christmas, and most o/ the ck^ 
I safc in the parlor with book or crochet, 
And in every stitch of the tidy I wrought, 
I fastened of him a most kind, friendly thought. 
With bright anticipations of when we should meet. 
If that time ever comes — every hour was replete, 
And the day swiftly speeded. And yet I was blue 
As any one could be, and all the eve too. 
Although I went out. Passed a quite pleasant eve ; 
But came home out of humor, somewhat, I believe, 
And my Christmas closed with a hot storm of tears. 

'Twas pleasant to-day, notwithstanding my fean 
To the contrary ; but I can't say it has been 
An exceedingly bright one to me. I saw In'm 
At service this morning, of course, and to-night ; 
But he — naughty boy — all the forenoon, sat quite 
Far back in the corner. I thought, though, that he 
Was writing, but guess he was not. This eve ** she ** 
Was there ; and my father and I went alone. 
I carried a note, which to him having shown, 
He hastened downstairs soon as service was o'er— 
Our seat is quite near to the vestibule door — 
And so I was out in the entry, before 
Scarcely any one else was. And he was there, too. 
As soon B8 mys*4f, and be walked part way throii|^ 



STOLEN WATERS, 116 

To the door, by my side, as he took from my hand 
The note which was in it ; but he — ugly man ! — 
Gave me none in return. 1 was vexed enough, too ! 
And I did pinch his hand just a little, 'tis true, 
When I found it was empty. I wished I had not 
Have given him mine, then ; but never once thought 
He would fail to give me one as well the same time, 
And I think that he might ! 

I wrote him in mine. 
To come out and see me next Tuesday p.m. — 
My mother is going to Tarrytown then. 
If she don't change her mind. 

I believe I am quite 
Too cross, or too blue, or despondent, to write 
Any more, so my book I will close for to-night. 



Dec&mher 30«A, 1863. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Monday was to me one of the most wretched day* 
That I ever have passed, I think. In the first place, 
I felt as anhappy as could be, and then 
To Brooklyn was forced to go in the A.M. 
And ere I arrived there it started to snow, 
Ai>d continued the rest of the day, and also 
A part of the next. I reached home about noon. 
And Fannie was going to Tarrytown soon. 
And wished me to accompany her. I, 'tis trae, 
Did not like to at all; but then, what could I do? 



116 STOLEN WATERS, 

I had no excuse, sho insisted, and I, 

As a matter of course, could do naught but eomplj. 

And so one more brief note to my " own Antony," 

I wrote ere I started, and took out with me, 

To mail on the way. And I told him that he 

Must not come out on Tuesday, as I had to go 

Out of town for a few days, against my will, though. 

But that I should be, without much doubt, at home 

Next Thv/rsday p.m., and if so, be alone. 

And then should be happy to see him. I know 

Scarcely what, when he reads it, he'll think. Somehow 

though, 
I felt that he cared not to come ; yet each time 
That we have arranged it, the fault has been mine 
That 'twas not carried out — for he every time wrote 
He should come at the time I had named in my note. 
Yet the letter I sent him that day was somewhat 
Independent, at least — he could come, or need not — 
I made him perceive, just which pleased bim to do. 
And then wrote : 

" If you come, though, I shall not tempt yon 
I think, from allegiance unto your wife. 
I imagine, although, 'twould not be, in your life, 
The first time it had swayed." 

We called in at a stora 
On our way to the depot, and there right before 
Me a gentleman stood I was introduced to 
On last Christmas evening ; who then, it is true. 
Paid me some attention ; but I've never thought 
Of him since, and I certainly that day did not 
Feel at all like conversing with strangers, that .1 
Oared nothing abovt. So I'd net meet his eye, 



STOLEN WATBBS, HI 

rhough he made, Fannie said, every effort he ooulA 
To attract my attention ; but did him no good. 
I knevir he was there, so would give him no glance 
Of recognition, warranting any advance 
Ob his part. 

We had quite a time getting out 
To T., for the snow gained so fast 'twas about 
All the cars could then do to get through, and 'twas Uite 
When at last we arrived at my brother Frank's gate. 
The next day my depression of spirits was gone, 
So I had a nice time, notwithstanding my strong 
A-version to going. 

Came home this p.m. ; 
Found letters awaiting me, one from m.y friend— 
'Twas short, but most kind, and he said he had been 
Nearly " driven to death " for the whole day, and then 
Was completely fagged out ; but had just snatched a few 
Brief moments to tell me, and hurriedly, too. 
That he should go up town the next afternoon 
If pleasant, about two o'clock, or as soon 
Thereafter as might be, according to my 
Instructions. I sent, since I came home to-night. 
Him a letter, or rather a word — it was not 
Hardly worthy the name of a letter, as what 
I wrote in it merely was " C(yne / " and the date — 
Though I signed it, of course, it was getting quite late 
When I went out to mail it. A man spoke to me^ 
And frightened me so that I think I shal^ be 
More careful in future about going out 
Is the evening alone ; I said uDthing about 
[t^ because no one knew that I went. 



118 8T0L&N WATSHA 

Mot.VoT IpOM 
(Tp U> T. in tho luoniiug, if pUvksautv i*-uil f*«^^ 
Ai my sistt^r itnuaiiuHi thoro, mui Uortriuio will W 
To iuon\»v ttt sohov>l, o( ooxirso, / i^uiuot »ty» 
As i\\o\\^ will bo iuiy tiling now to prt^vout 
Oiir lUtH^t ing »t lai»t. 

C'au it b<> luy dctvr fiitmd 
I idutU 8<H> in i>iio im>iv tlay ^ Kv^r oucv h*v«» him, i 
To my own sc^lt" ruiuoly? I on.iiuot, ^-iiu yon, 
My Jomual, iloar V yot iVii.Ur.o it is truo I 
I httvo untioiinitod with sv> n\iuh oi' doeyt 
Ami i»4ii»iout*to longing; his ooumit; iu aUn^p 
Uavo tkiio.iovl hiiw ufjir mo so oAou. to Wivk« 

Ami tliul it IX iluMlU, .in llUlSlNv> IUlS(:l.k0, 

Thrtt m»v thiit tho tuuo is sv> uomly ai liAiul, 

Whoii my divams nhall boov>mo hU ivnlity, A.ud 

JM^V hopo8 iu tVuitiou bo unngtHl, I Oiwiuot 

llimlly givo oitnioiuv unto tho sNvo<>t, happy tlioiifki| 

lx>4»t tiV-nionv>>v I >v:vkou (o tluvl it bnt a 

Dolu^oiu, whio.h niovniug Ui;ht s.-nttor:* ftwuy. 



IktmUx^r :^Ui, 1863, 

TIirU&UAY. 

Uow i\m I wiito down tho ovotit*; of tins AtkjJ 
Whert^ aha.ll I Ivgin. and oh, wh.it sh^-U I say? 
llov \n\ unto uw» — 

Th\s .. 'vor io W> 

8ot upart V .\ud ** cmt» Wiuiful o( a<!».nsi»t.ioiv» iM»w, 
4ud d<«»p, swtH't, lUid tlvriUiug ; v>f »c>us»t.iou«, tofl^ 



Rnowi) but oiuM^ ill jv Hfotniiiv" 1 (hink, Uh>, ihmi 4# 
Will novor ft)ri:;t^( it; timl i\u\l it muHt bo 
To A#»A*, ovon, mail i>f (lu> woi Ul ns \\o iw, 
A day o( Hoxno u\\\Hnl ; uiul (hat I in hiM 
Thoughts (iKui^ht o.-ui but hav<>a ii)iiN|)itniou« pIttOA. 
A« for uic, I rail iu>\v rlosv* my (\von, ami hin faoo 
8<HMUN right lunt^ l>(>t\>rt» uu>. 

ll(> i-aiiio tiiin P.M. 
AlK>ut twi> t>\U)ilv not miioii hit or -ami wliAO 

110 jvaasoil by t.ht> wimlow I Haw him, aiul ho 
To ojuui t.ho iloor I uiail<> all hasto, although 
Ho yot hail not rung, ami luvNtA>i>il hofoi-o mo, 
JuHt UJA haiulsimio ami nohlo a;^ oviu-; aiul wo 
Shook hamls in a uiaittM- of laot, tVituully wuy. 
No oont'usion on oitlior Hiilt> ; a.ml I must, nay, 
NotwitbHtuiuliuj; that wo ti> day mot umltM- Huali 
Ciroumst-aiut s p( ruhar, thoro was iu>t a touch 
()t* ombanassuuuit sliown in liia mannor, aiul I 
^ono t>\|unioiiooil, ot>rta.inly 1 t^voii if my 

Ohook was tluslunl with (»\i'ittMUOut, my lioart boatiug 
With joy at. his ^>l•^^sl>ll^•o, long hDjuul t'or, at hint 

111 lis fuhu>sH possossoil. 

Ill tho |)arli>r wo ptuimnl — 
AiuI sat ili>wii by tho gratt>, in an oasy-irhair, I, 
Wo soating himsolf in aiu>t]ior lUMir by, 
l>irortly in front of, ami facing, too, luilie. 
i)f various matttus wt> talktul iVir Hoino timo, 
And I foun I my doar frituul to ho ijuitc^ aa rofmod, 
Aj* int<>lligont, too, well infiirnuHl, and aH kind, 
Ah phnming in maniuM-, in voioi% and in sjuHHrh — 
Am I had imu^inod him. hulaoil! in t\acU 



i^O STOLEN WATERS. 

He went far ahead of my fancy. I find 

He ia thoroughl/^ gentle, too, which, to my mindy 

Ii the most potent charm which a man can [innnrwi 

I always have thought he would be, I confess, 

fiUrcsstic somewhat, but I never saw less 

Of that than in him who was with me to-day. 

Ajid then he has, too, I can't less do than say, 

The most fascinating, caressing, nice way, 

Of any man which I have known heretofore, 

And I'm certain that no one has e'er made me mart 

Intensely, unspeakably happy than he 

Did to-day, when he sat here conversing with me. 

I would I were able to write it all here, 

Each motion and act, every word that his dear 

Lips uttered ; but that I can't do, it is clear. 

It is all indistinct as a last evening's dream, 

And I into form could not draw it, I ween. 

I write a few words, and, ere I am aware, 

I forget what I'm doing, almost forget where 

I am, for the time, and my pen is laid down, 

And I, in a reverie sweet and profound, 

Live over again every moment of the 

Two brief fleeting hours, so delicious to me, 

So full of exquisite, entrancing delight, 

A spell w hich yet rests on me. 

I ccmnot write I 
I do not know how ; I cannot language find 
To express w) at I wish — to convey from my 
To this paper insensate, the memory of what 
Was so pleasant in passing. I'm sure I cannot 
Forget it, as long as I live, and so why 
Should I 3are about having it written ? Yet I 



HTOLEN WATBB8, 121 

Buppose rather pleasant 'twould be, by and by, 

These leaves of my life to turn backward, and read 

Of a fancy — it is nothing deeper, indeed, 

I am certain — and which may have long since burnt ont^ 

And a memory, that half-forgotten, no doubt, 

Be all that is left of the ashes. I'll try 

And write what I can, though it should, by the by, 

Be somewhat incoherent. 

As saying before, 
Of various things we conversed, and went o'er 
Some points, too, of our correspondence. Pretty much 
The first thing he said was, 

" How da/re you make sucbi 
Grave charges against me ? " 

And this with a smile 
Arch and humorous ; I, though, could not for awhile 
Understand his allusion, and so I told him. 
And he only repeated the same thing ; but in 
A moment or two it had flashed on my mind 
To what he referred — what I wrote the last time — 
That " I should not tempt him, etc.," and so 
I answered, 

" I recollect now, but you know 
[ da/re to do anything, but to meet you I " 
He laoghed then a little, replied, 

" So you d9 
Think, then, it would not be thejirst timey do you ? ** 

He hardly looks like the same man in the choir 
Uiat he does out of it ; not but what I admire 
Him as much, or but what he looks quite as weU, toOi 
Near by as he does farther off. To the view , 

e 



122 STOLEN WATEm. 

Distance lends not enchantment, at least, in thia 
He is very fine-looking, in form and in face. 
T do not see how I could ever have thought 
That Colonel Allair is more handsome I He's tiol) 
By any means ; though he in fact is somewhat 
Of a different style, from " my own Antony ; " 
Is darker complexioned, I think ; at least, he 
Is less fair in face, and his beard darker, too ; 
Is taller, not quite so broad shouldered. I do 
Not think that he either possesses such grace 
Or polish of manner, allowing his face 
To be nearly as handsome. 

Remarking to him 
That he did not look like the same person when in 
The choir that he did out of it, he replied. 
Laughingly, that perhaps he was not ; how did I 
Know, indeed, but he was some one else ? 

Heto-daj 
To call on a lady a few blocks away 
Was going — her name Mrs. Douglass, I think, 
And a stranger to him — to engage her to sing 
Next Sabbath at church. I inquired whose place she 
Was to take, the soprano's, or alto's. And he 
First replied laughingly, " Oh, the tenor's," and theiif 
Said that she was to sing in the place of Miss M., 
The present soprano. 

Referred, by tue by, 
To the poem he sent me, " You Kissed Jtfe/" and I 
Asked if he knew the author. He said he did not. 
It purjjorted to come from a lady, but thought 
A woman naught half so exquisite could write, 
And added that tn the piece ^rre was some quite 



STOLEN WAIERU iSit 

Strong language employed ; and then quoted, in aiB 

Tones so matchless, the few lines commencing with thig, 

** And were I this instant an angel, possessed 

Of the glory and peace that is given the blest, 

I would throw my white robes uni'epiningly down, 

And tear from my forehead its glittering crown, 

To nestle once more in that haven of rest " — 

At the next line he paused, and with archness expressed 

In his face, and I fancied some bashfulness, said. 

With a little short laugh, tossing backward his head, 

" I've forgotten the rest 1 " 

He informed me that he 
And my Sabbath-school teacher schoolmates used to be. 
I exclaimed in surprise, " Why he's older than you ? " 
He smiled, said, " I guess not, think he's fifty-two, 
And I fifty-seven 1 " 

** You are not so old ! " 
I replied, and I knew by his face he'd not told 
Me the truth when he answered me — *' Why 1 that ia Bot 
Very old, is it ? " 

" Oh, not so very J I thought, 
Though that you was much younger ! " replied I, and he 
Said, ** No I I am just seventeen ! " 

Teasing me, 
I of course knew he then was, or trying to do ; 
8o I said " No! but tell me, just how old a/re you! " 
•* Thirty-seven," he then said he was, and I knew 
That this time, at least, he wao telling me true. 
Just <« think of it I He was last year twice as old 
As I \ And how long he'd been married, he told 
Me, as weU. Fifteen ysars, I believe, ana so J 
Waa scarcely four years old. He wuuld, by the bj| 



J 24 STOLEN WATERS. 

Elave bad a long time to have waited for me. 
He has two little boys, and the oldest thirteeiiy 
The other one seven. I never have seen 
The youngest. 

I spoke of a cousin of mine 
Seeing him at a ball, one eve, some little time 
Ago ; but he said he'd not been to but one 
This season ; and that was masonic. He'd od 
A masonic ring, also. I asked him if he 
Was a mason, and could he not give unto me 
The "grip," and he answered, " Oh, yes! " as he took 
My hand in his own, but of course merely shook 
It, and naturally, I suppose, held it fast, 
And pressing my fingers, retained in his clasp 
The hand he had taken, although from his grasp 
To release it I did once or twice vainly try. 
But he then took the other, instead, by the by, 
Both holding with firmness, yet gently, and I 
Did not care very much. 

I expected he would 
Have made such advances. I think that I should 
Be affected and fooKsh if I should pretend 
That I did not ; or either that he did offend 
By making such overtures. I of course knew 
When I sent my first letter, and also all through, 
More especially, though, since becoming aware 
That 1 knew he was married, and-so-forth, that thero 
Could not be much doubt but that he'd misjudge me 
And not only weak, but rmprincipled, he 
Might possibly think me. 'Twould certainly be 
Very natural, too ; and I could not blame him 
[f )ie did| yet I can but acknowledge he's been 



STOLEN WATERS. A.2ft 

Kioeeclingiy generous, and, I have had 

Occasion but once any fault to find — that 

Was his sending the poem, to which some way back 

I think I referred. Therefore, 1 was, in fact, 

Prepared for injustice, yet still hoped he might 

In the end change his mind, and I think ihat, ta nigkii 

Of me his opinion is different quite 

From what 'twas this morn. I repelled all I could. 

Without being rude, the caresses he would 

ELave lavished on me ; and I've no fault to find, 

And he, I am certain, went home with his mind 

In regard to my frailty quite disabused. And, 

While making him fully, I think, understand 

I was not what he thought me, I did not repel 

What I knew was quite harmless, and also was— well. 

There has been in my heart for so long an intense, 

Half-unconscious desire for my friend's dear presence— <^ 

A longing just once to be clasped in his arms, 

That now that my wishes could be without harm 

Gratified, why should /, what he gave on his part 

With so much of pleasure, refuse, while my heart 

A rapid response beat to each fond caress 

That he offered. And so I did not, I confess, 

Repulse him, when he his head laid on my breast, 

But suffered it there a few moments to rest, 

While I to his forehead my cheek softly pressed, 

As happy as he. Nor again, when he drew 

Me within his embrace foi a moment or two, 

Jusi. before he was leaving, and pressed on my itpi 

His fiiBt kiss, while to my very finger-tips 

I lelt tbe blood rush from my heart. 



136 HTOLEIS WATEH8. 

He, at Jast, 
Having glauoed at his watch, found that two hours haJ 



And *twas then four o'clock ; therefore, was about time 
For Gertrude to come home from school ; and to find 
Him with me she must not; so I told him that he 
Must go, which he already knew. So of me 
Taking leave, very sweetly and kindly, he went, 
And I was alone. 

One more hour was far spent 
Before Gertie came home, so he need not have gone 
So soon, had I known it would been quite so long 
Ere she would have come. Mother did not get home 
Until about nine, and so we were alone — 
I and Gertie — as father went down town this eve, 
To hear — Wendell Phillips' address, I believe. 
Gertrude soon went to sleep on the sofa, and I 
Before the fire sat, in a rocker, with my 
Elbows resting on each of the arms of my chair, 
Both hands clasped o'er my eyes, and my thoughts--olig 

well, where 
Should they be but with him ? And I wonder, too, whethei 
" He thought of to-day, of when we were together. 
How ? Where ? Oh, what matter ! Somewhere in a drean^ 
Drifting, slowly drifting down a wizai'd stream — 
Where ? Togetlier I Then what matters it whither? *' 

But midnight is rapidly hastening thither, 
And I'll say good by to to-day which has been 
One of unalloyed pleasure ; enshrining within 
My heart's " white-washed chamber," its deepef fc 
The memory dear of to-daj> , and confess 
** <ikoUn uxUerf ssjl sweetl " 



STOLEN WATERS. 127 

And I also must bletud 
With adieus to the day a good-night to my frimvt^ 
To the future give hopes, to the past give a tear 
Of regret, and farewells to the speeding <* Old Tew.** 



Jamuvry 9>th, 1864. 

FRIDAY. 

"The great laws of life readjust their infiractioiiy 
^d to every emotion appoint a reaction." 
That sentiment I indorse with all my heart, 
And have realized fully, I think, for my part, 
The truth of the sentence. That pleasure must be 
By misery followed inevitably. 
No letter last Saturday did I receive, 
Ab I hoped that I might ; and the Sabbath, indeed. 
Was a miserable day all around. In the mom 
I of course went to service. My brother was down 
And went to church with us. My cousin came, too. 
From Brooklyn, and as to myself, I was blue, 
I thought, as I could be, before I went out ; 
But my spirits, when I had returned, were about 
Ten degrees lower still. 

Well ! my friend was then t09^ 
And he much as usual appeared, it is true ; 
Yet I own I was rather dissatisfied, felt 
Oroflfi at him just a little, and more at mysell 
I also waft vexed that I had not received 
Amy letter from him Saturday, and belieyed 



128 STOUCN WATERH. 

That he might to iiui AriUt^ii, if hn had carod to* 

Ab ho promimHl, if I'm not uastakon, to do, 

And was iiioni tllsappoiiiUid than caring to o^n. 

Thou \ny biotlior and wifo, afUu- wo roturnod home, 

Had soiiio worils, wldoh wore callod out by someikiiig ) 

Haid) 
Though (juito iimoceutly ; and thou, too, my head 
Aohud ahnoHt aH uuioli an uiy hoart, and I thought, 
On tho vvh(>lo, 'twan a day hh thorouglily fraught 
Witli annoyanotiH, trilling, porhapH, but yet uone 
Th(^ li^HH irriUiting and vexing, an ono 
Vfiry fnu|uontly paHHOs. 

Ilioro was, by the by, 
In thtM'Juipol a prayor-nuuiling nuuoly, that uight, 
Aiul no Borvico iu ohnn^h, and ho I vvaH quite 
Coutont to Btay homo. 

VVoll, I heard tho boll ring 
To-dav, but supposed it waH not any thing 
For me; consecpumtly, was inuch pleased to find 
IM not only a hsttor from Antony mine, 
But ono also from Oolonol A Hair. And 1 then 
Felt bettor ; for botli were tpiito phrasing, aud when 
I hail opomul tho ColonoPs I found there (moloBod 
A photograph of him - a (ino one 1 

8up]«ose 
My Antony wisluul to make up for delay 
In writing to me, for bin letter to-day 
Was much longt^r than uHual, nor c»ui I but say, 
"Was equally kindly tuid warndy expressed. 
CkHumeniHHl " My own Bit tor-Sweet," aiui, fir the ntk^ 
I would much like to co|>y it here if I could. 
But have ueitlier the time nor the spaoe. 



tilVLUN W/tTI£UH. IM 

'J'bougbt b« ihouU 
In the choir his i)08ition roHign Hoon, ulthough 
lie did " ratlujr liko tho old * cornor,' " and ho 
Gu6Hu ho^ll not. And his lottr^r L armwcrod to-niglit, 
And niuil^Mi it. 1 wont ))aKt IiIh Iioiiho. A bright light 
Wa8 in parlor and hall ; hut tlio hIuuIoh woro drawn down. 
I Baw naught of him — proauino ho wuh down town. 
Sistor Fannie to HoHton roturnf;*! ycHtxjrday. 
Pm 90 tired, and think i havo no nioro to aaj. 



Jmma/ry KMJk, 18G4. 

SUNDAY. 

Do not fool much liko writing, havo not maoh to write I 
It'B bocomo Rocond naturo U) writo Hahhatli night. 
So, aH in my wont, I havo takon my poii, 
And ojionod my hook for tliat purpon*;. lint then, 
Ab Ixiforo J havo Hai<l, 1 havo not njnoh to nay. 
ITio fjact of tho mattor iH, I am to-day 
In much too low Bjw'ritK for anything. Too, 
TJiere'B nothing of import oo(;ijrrod, Binco with yon 
I chatt(jd, my Journal, a fow nightH ago. 
Loretto wan horo yoHt(;r<iay afl<;rnoon, ho 
Wo went with Hr>nio friondH to tho thoatro. Then 
Vd an invitation to B. thiH i*.M. 
To dino, hut 'twan ho " bitt<;r cold " did not go. 
Went to church morn and ov<5rjirjg aH uHual, ami no 
(>f courKO Haw my Antony, /did not, though, 
I*ay but little attention to him, nor did he 
To m« ei viier thin morning ; he leerntMi, tluuigh, to M 



130 aXOLEN WATERS, 

Very pleaaanl and smiling this evening, but I 
Looked coldly away, and would not meet hia ej«t 
I suppose that he thinks I am ugly — I, too, 
Think ^ ia a little, my Journal ; don't you? 



Jofimairy 14^A, 1864. 

THURSDAY. 

One more pleasant day in my changeable life I 
Again I can write of some hours that were rife 
With pleasure, instead of with pain. A short note 
I sent to my Antony Tuesday last. Wrote 
That mother was going to Brooklyn to-day, 
And if he could come out this p.m., and stay 
An hour or two with me, that I should be glad 
To see him, of course. I had hoped to have bad 
A letter in answer this morning, to know 
Was he coming or not. None arrived, though, and lo 
I hardly knew whether to expect him or not. 
About noon, though, the bell loudly rang, and I tkoagbt 
It sounded indeed like the carrier's ring ; 
But it was so late, thought it could not be him. 
However, it was, and he brought me the note 
I had been expecting ; and yet, though he wrote 
A long letter, for him, no' a word did he say 
As to whether he should, or not, come out to-day 
He asked near the end how I liked Sunday mom 
rhe sermon ; and said he dared hardly look down, 
Aa it seemed j'lst as though sonro one's eyes were (A 
411 the time. 



STOLEN WATJSBJU. 131 

Well, of course I was dressed an 1 wiUiim 
The parlor before two o'clock ; but I had 
Nearly given him up ere he came ; but was glad, 
Very glad, to see his well-known form, pass at lengthy 
rhe window ; and so to the hall-door I went, 
And admitted vdlj friend. 

Mrs. A., who has been 
Staying here for some time, had gone out this p.m., 
Saying that she expected a call from a friend, 
And asked me if I would not see him, and tell 
Him why she was absent, and send him there. Well ! 
I promised to do so, and thought it was him, 
When soon after my friend came I heard the bell ring. 
So I went to the door ; but a lady was there 
Whom I did not know ; proved to be a Miss Ware, 
A teacher of music, and came here to see 
If mother would not allow Gertrude to be 
A pupil of hers. So I told her that I 
Would speak to mamma about it, and would try 
And at once let her know the result. She had then 
Full particulars given to me ; therefore, when 
She asked me if she might come in, I was so 
Much surprised that just what to reply did not know. 
Nor did I think ahead far enough then to say 
That I was engaged, and if some other day 
She'd call, she would doubtless mamma £nd at homo. 
Hesitating one instant, the next I had shown 
Her in the front-parloi My Antony then 
Had my albums, and sat calmly looking at them ; 
He was in the back room; both the doors, thoughj betweep 
Were wide open, and bo she of oourse must have seen 



132 aTOLEJS WATERS, 

Him sitting there ; but I did not at the tine 

Think anything of it, except, Journal mine, 

That I wished she would go. And she did not say onm 

Single thing except what she had previously done. 

Remained a few moments, and then went aw&j. 

She gave me her card, and I found, by the way, 

That she on the same street resided that he 

Does. He looked at her card, and he said she must be 

But a few doors from him, and he guessed he would go 

Ajict tuke lessons in singing ; but he did not know 

Her at all, in reply to my question, said. 

WeUI 
W© were having a cosey chat all to ourselves, 
Wlien some little time after the bell rang again. 
You must know that I did not go this time, but when 
In a moment Ann opened the door, I heard them 
Enquire for my mother, and heard her reply 
That she was away ; she believed, though, that I 
Was at home. So at once turned to show them into 
The parlor, but — most fortunately, 'tis true — 
The key I had turned when they rang, and she found 
The door fastened. And so after upstairs and down 
She had looked for me vainly, informed them that I 
Must also have gone out. And when, by the by, 
Their names they had given, I foimd them to be 
Two of our own church ladies most prominent. He 
Wished to know who they were, and I told him. Bj&m 

shocked 
They'd have been, if the door had not chanctjd to le looket^ 
And they had been shown in the parlors, to find 
Him and me there alone. 'Twould created a fine 
Piece of iKandal, no doubt. But I w mdet; in timei 



8T0LBN WATERS. 183 

riuit I thought to do BO , but 'twaa well that I did^ 
Thus escaping unpleasant exposure. 

Amid 
Bo much interruption, the afternoon passed 
Away but too swiftly. Hours too bright to L»at 
Glided rapidly onward. Why cannot we atAj 
The swift flight of Time ? Sometimes bid a to-<Uiy 
So happy and joyous to tarry alway ? 
We did have a nice, pleasant time this p.m. 
It seemB as if I had for years known my friend. 
Was just as affectionate, gentle, and kind, 
And charming, to-day, as he was the last time 
He was here. And I do like him much, and I guess 
That he does me a little. And yet, I confess 
That my feelings have been vastly different this eve 
Than they were the last time ; and think I may beIieT« 
I have conquered that fancy. 

The reason he wrote 
Not a word about coming, within his last note, 
Was that it was written on Tuesday ; the boy 
Let the mail all lie over, and which did annoy 
W\m much ; but supposed that IM receive mine 
Yesterday afternoon. I coaxed him for some time 
To give back my letters ; but he would not say 
That he would or would not, only that he some day 
Desired " reading them backwards." That's all the "fcply 
I could get to my teasing. It seems he is quite 
Immovable when he once makes up his mind. 
And he's not to be coaxed, neither driven, I find, 
lute what he decides not to do. But I thought 
Bin more pleaaing in hii cc^^'ersation, laid not 



184 STOLEN WATEBS, 

Hie less fascii\ating in manner, to-day, 

Than when he was with me before. Can but mj 

That in every respect he's a gentleman, too, 

Aad I like him extremely 1 My Journal, don't 70^ f 

I went out the evening to pass with some Mends, 
Which Tm sure I couid not done the last time ; but thett^ 
As IVe previously said, I am now feeling quite 
Indiff 'rent to him when compared to that night. 
TTiH presence to-day gave me rrmch pleasure, though. 
And the evening has been very happy also. 
Filled with thoughts of his tenderness, manliness, grace, 
His good sense, his kind words, and his loving embrace 
As he kissed me at parting. May he have to-night 
Happy thoughts 'till he sleeps, and then dreams of delight 1 



Jamiamry 2ith, 1864. 

SDITDAY. 

One more dreary week has vanished and passed, 
But Tve naught to record, since when here I wrote last^ 
Except disappointment and pain, discontent, 
Wounded pride, and displeasure. 

Last Sabbath, I went 
To church mom and eve. Out new singer was there. 
And he sat l)ack with her in the morn. Did I care ? 
Not so much as I should have a few weeks ago. 
Remained in the " comer " that evening, although^ 
And sent to me glances both smiling and swee^ 
Whanever my eyes I allowed his to meet, 



STOLEUr WATBJB8. tU 

Which was not rery often. Fm sure he c<.Aild wad 
Naught but coldness, indifference in mine, and, indeed, 
l/dt coldly to hhn. When they sang the last I yum 
I law the new singer and him whispering ; 
They pretended that it was the music about — 

Perhapa that it was I Mrs. , his wife — was out. 

I wish she would stay home. 

Monday, went o'er to Bw 
It rained, I got wet, the result was to me 
A cold most severe ; and the next day I could 
Hardly hold up my head. 

Mother thought that she should 
Go up to my brother's on Thursday ; at length 
Decided she would not ; so I did not send. 
Of course, for my friend, until Frank that a.m. 
Came up here and said that the baby was sick, 
And wished her to go ; so she dressed just as quick 
As she could, and went off; and then, writing to hiin^ 
I sent it down town by a friend who was in — 
Making him understand 'twas an order for books. 
I told him I knew he could come, and I looked 
For him, too ; but he did not. I felt just as vexed 
As I could do, of course ; and I thought I would next 
A letter send him he would quite understand ; 
Make a change for the better, or else be a grand 
Winding-up of the whole. 

And I wrote, I coxdd aee^ 
I thought, how it was ; he was getting to be 
Tired of our correspondence- -disliked to say bo } 
But he said voluntarily, some time ago, 
That when weary of it he'd at once let me knoWe 



kBi 8T0LXN WATSBS. 

Bo I meant thht he should ; and I said Hwat im WM 
Most certainly jleasant — but only while h© 
Wrote promptly ; but since then had been mucli 
Than pleasure, indeed. Then I wrote, 

<< It is plain 
You care not for me, and I never once thought 
rhat you did ; and I also can say I do not 
Care much for you, either. The crisis has passed I 
Your recent neglect has been withering fast 
All affection's sweet roses, too fragile to last, 
Which had bloomed in my bosom for you, until nau^t 
Kemains but a few faded leaves which I caught 
As they dropped from the stem ; and these, too, I shall 
Gather up, with your letters and words, and allow 
The * dead past to bury its dead.' I shall see 
You frequently, but you have lost over me 
All your power. I shall not forget you, indeed. 
And neither shall you forget * your Bitter Sweet ' (?) 
While you siog in that choir, and I sit in the seat 
I now do in church. I am weary of wooing ; 
New business it is to me, I've been pursuing; 
And I do not think I have had much succesa, 
And shall not attempt it again, I confess ; 
I will not coax amy man, not even yot*, 
And if there is any more wooing to «?40, 
^TwiU not be on my side." 

And then, at tlie elDM, 
I wrote that I left it with him to disipose, 
According to his inclination. That is 
To lay, at once candidly, if 'twas his wish, 
To our correspondence close now ; and if 90^ 
Or if Bot, I requested that he'd let me 



STOLEIT WATERS. 137 

By % note S'iniUy eve without fail. And I tnut 
It may bring a change, and indeed think it mnat. 

Before I had sent this^ the following day, 
I an answer received to my other, to say, 
He had just returned hon^e from the country, and found 
My note, but could not possibly get up town 
That P.M., as he'd business he could not defer ; 
So we'd have to postpone it. Wrote but a few worda, 
Scarce a page, but most kindly. So then what to do, 
About sending my letter, indeed hardly knew. 
But at length thought I would, the result of it be 
What it might. 

Lorette came up to-day, and with me 
Went to church. He sat back with the siagers again. 
She asked if I saw how he looked at me when 
They were singing. I did see, or rather I knew 
His eyes were on me, though I would not, 'tis true, 
Look fully at him. After service, Lorette 
And I went down town a short distance. We met 
My friend and his wife at the comer, and each 
Walked down the same street 'till their door they had 

reached — 
But we on the opposite side — and as he 
Turned in closing the door he sent over to me 
Smile and bow, too, of greeting most kind. We caik* qaoI 
The same way, some time later. Lorette said he sat 
At the window ; so doubtless he saw us, but I 
Did not glance toward there while the house passing hf 
This evening he sat in the "corner." I thought 
De wag writing, bat now I suppose he was nak^ 



138 STOLEN WATEELS, 

As Le gave me no letter — most provoking mem /- 
Notwithstanding my urgent request. And how a 
I avoid feeling coolly and cross to him, too, 
If be does look so kindly at me ? And I doi 



January ZUty 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

The letter I so much desired last Sunday 
Was on Wednesday received. Not a word did he M 
About our correspondence now closing ; but said 
That he was last Sabbath so situated 
'Twas impossible quite he should give me a note. 
His letter was pleasant and kind, and he wrote 
At some length beside, and he hoped that to me 
It might be acceptable. Thought there would be 
A change in the choir before long. There had been 
The previous day a committee to him, 
From some other church, and he could not tell wluit 
Might be the result. But I hope he will not 
Leave the choir. I am sure if I really thought 
He would, I should be more unhappy than now. 
Though 'twould hardly be possible, I will allow. 
I^d he saw me go up street on Sunday noon last. 

And as to to-day, it, as usual, has passed 
Quite fleetly, if not very pleasantly. He 
Sat back in the choir mem and eve; but on me 
He kept his ey<»ii fixed during singing, and ibe 
Ikmediofciop «s well, leaning over to see 



BTOLMV WATEns. 189 

tf • M I passed out, though I would not {^rs kia 

One fiill glance in return. After all, though, IVt been 

And have fdt toward him much less coolly to-daj 

Than I have for some time. If he'd but keep awaj 

From our new soprano, I think I'd not be 

Quite so cross with him. So, I am jealous, you iee, 

My Journal ! The fact is, I have not one bit 

Of confidence in him ; for if he sees fit 

To flirt so with rae, he with others will, too, 

And I cannot respect a man who is untrue 

In what should be the dearest relations of life. 

Let me once get my letters from him, and then I've 

Done with him. 

" >SAe" was there, too, this evening — ^his wife ;-« 
She watches me closely, as if she might be 
Just the least trifle jealous. She need not — of me. 
And I was of her once, but think I'm not now, 
For sh^s much more cause than 7" have, I'll allow. 



Febrria/ry 1««, 1864. 

MONDAY. 

I Imagine the end can be not distant far I 
That the time swift approaches when he and I aj 
To become merely strangers again. And to-day 
Has been an eventful one, I can but say I 
Ib the first place, this morn I a letter received 
From him, which was written on Saturday eve l 
^M just going up to rehearsal, he wrote. 



I'M STOLEN WATWHa 

** TwM » bora, ihould U glad wken. r«li«T#d t * Btrt I 

hope 
Tkat iim« will ii)t come very looa. 

" I inppofle 
1 shall sec you to-morrow,'' he writes, near the cloae 
'* But know not as then I shall hardly dare meet 
Your eyes, lest I see that you look. Bitter Sweet, 
So frowningly at me because I have not 
Replied to your letter before, as I thought 
To be able to do. This is, though, the first chance 
I have had." 

But there was not much fear in his glanoe 
Last Sabbath, nor did I frown much, I believe. 
But he wrote before this — 

"la letter received 
Anonymously but a few days ago. 
In regard to my visiting up town ; and so 
It seems some one saw me, has taken the pains 
To warn me of it, and attributes the same 
To bad motives. Perhaps 'tis as well, for although 
My mind's free from wrong, others may not think so. 
And a mere friendly visit construe thus into 
Something worse. Well ! we all are quite likely, 'tis troi^ 
To judge from appearance ! Unjustly, sometimes, 
As in this case. And we should perhaps bear in mind 
The old proverb, * Avoid all appearance of wrong.' ** 

I knew in a moment just where it came from — 
The caller I had the last time he was here ; 
From no one else covM it have come. It is clesr 
She saw him come in, and, they living so near 



STOLEN WATERS. 141 

ro each other, she certainly must have known Mm ; 

j8o suppose that she made up her miud to come in 

And ascertain why he was there. I thought, then, 

Rather strange she should as/cif she might, and, too, irkea 

She'd ah-eady said all necessary to say. 

She's contemptible I Bad as I am, or she may 

Think I am — for I faucy I'm not, by the way. 

Any worse than she is — I would ne'er condescend 

To do aught so mean. Force herself in, and then 

rake advantage of what she discovered, to send 

An anonymous letter to him. She is not, 

Neither is her opinion, deserving a thought ! 

But it is rather galling to be so misjudged, 

To a proud girl like me, it is true I But then, fudge I 

It is not worth minding, to come from that source, 

Though for his sake, it could but annoy me, of course. 

But if it don't get to his wife I don't care 1 

Finished reading my letter, I went right downstain, 
And nearly the first thing, mamma asked me where 
My letter was from. An evasive reply 
Was I forced to make. This concealment, though, I 
Dan hardly endure. 'Tis quite foreign to my 
Nature, habit, and wish. But it shall not be so I 
[ loUl sever all ties that now bind us, although 
My heart it should break. Though there is not much Ami 
[)f that, I imagine ! Instead, it is clear 
'Twill be more a relief than aught else to me. Yet, 
Can I give him up ? It will be hard, I expect, 
Although it must be. 

Mother said that a week 
4go yesterday, she had gone for a sheet 



149 STOLEN WATERS, 

Of note-paper tc my portfolio, and saw 

It was locked. But she tiijugh.t that perhaps she 

draw 
Some forth from the leaves in between. So she tried. 
And she did ; but she drew something eLse, too, beside. 
One sheet of the letter — or copy — I sent 
TTim the previous week ; and which also I meant 
Cpstairs to have taken, and placed in my desk. 
And did the next day. An envelope addressed 
To him I have been very careful, all through. 
Not to keep, lest some person should see it ; and, too, . 
Whene'er there has been anything of the kind 
Within my portfolio before, any time. 
In the pockets I always have placed it, and not 
The leaves in between ; but this time my forethought 
Seems quite to have left me. She read it all through. 
Told how it commenced, and some things I wrote, toe^ 
And quoted verbatim — " I shan't forget you, 
You shall not forget me, long as you continue 
To sing in that choir, and I sit in the pew 
That I now do in church." So I saw that she kneir 
The whole story, and farther dissembling would be 
Both useless, and also impossible. She 
Said she " hoped that it might be the bass-singer, ani 
Could not think I'd been writing to a married man.** 
And why did I do it ? Foolish giri ^hat I am I 
I told her I thought no more of him than she, 
And, as soon as my letters I could obtain, we 
Would be done with each other. 

So I must tell Ua 
When I have a good chance. ' don't like to go in 



STOLEN WATERS 14* 

To the store, bo must wait until he comes out here. 
And no knowing when that time will come, but I fear 
Twill be not very soon, ^nd I do wonder what 
Will come next ? " It ne'er rains, but it pours ! " and I 

thought 
There was truth in the proverb to-day. 

Thiap.it 
i wrote him a note ; have not sent it. 

Well, when 
We part, we'll part friends. One more meeting, and then— 



Fefntuvry 7thy 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Nothing very important since here I last wrote. 
Last Wednesday A.M., there arrived a brief note 
From my friend ; and he spoke of the one he received, 
And he writes — 

" Who it came from I cannot conceive. 
Can you ? You must see that will render it, though, 
Impossible for me at present to go 
Out to see vou." 

I do wish that some people would 
Iheir own affairs mind I It would do them more good. 
And cause much lees trouble. I had not sent mine 
rhat I wrote him on Monday, so added a line, 
And Hent it that day. And I wrote him I thought 
ifter reading the rest Df my letter, he'd not 



144 STOLEN WATERS. 

Have much doubt whsre his came from, and asked hin 

to send 
It to me for perusal. I told him I then 
Expected that somethiiig would come of her call, 
But thought not of that ; neither cared I at all. 
If it did not through her reach his wife. And I hope 
It will not, for her own sake and his too. I wrote, 
" I am sure 'twas from her, so you see that th^re would 
Be no danger in your coming up, if I could 
Opportunity give to you ; but I cannot 
Just at present. But you seem to have not a thought 
That Pve aught at stake." 

I wrote nothing about 
My mother's discovery ; 'till he comes out, 
I thought I would wait ere I told him. Have had 
Not as yet any answer to that, though I half 
Elxpected one yesterday morn. 

This A.M., 
I of course went to church. He was there, and agdbl 
Sat back with the rest of the singers, and I 
Felt jealous as usual. I do not see why 
He does so, I'm sure ! for he never used to 
Until the now singer came ; now, it is true, 
He does nearly always. 

Was given to-night 
In the chapel a Sabbath-school concert. 'Twas quite 
A good one. He was not of course there, but " tM* — 
His wife — was, and sat, too, one seat back of me. 
After concert, her little boy came to her seat ; 
So I've seen him at last ! He's the image complete 
Of his father. He has the saite eye, dark and deep, 
The small mouth, |x>uting lips and the same rounded 



STOLEN WATEB8, 14i 

Anil, more Uke him than all, same expressLDn of miLil« 
Sweet good-humor. And he is a beautiful child 1 
And I fimcy that she thinks so, too, by the tone 
Of fondness with which she addressed him. I owa 
That she well may be proud of her fine, lovely boy. 
I wonder where he was to-night, how employed I 

The Sabbath-school had a rehearsal last night. 
I went. The choir, too, were rehearsing. I'd liked 
To have looked in a moment on them, I confess ; 
But of course I could not, and was forced ts reproM 
All longings to see my dear/Wewc?, 'till today, 
And then was not quite satisfied, I must say. 



Jfebnuvry \2th^ 1864. 

FRIDAY. 

Friday Eve ! and once more all alone in my 
With my journal before me, my pen I resume, 
To inscribe on its pages the passing events 
Of the week nearly gone, of a day of content, 
Which also hastes fast to its close. And I, too, 
Must with brevity say all I'm wishing to do. 
And seek my repose. 

Tuesday last, I believe, 
From Colonel AUair I a letter received, 
And one from my ^^ friend " on the following daj. 
He writes — 

'^ I have felt much annoyed, I must mj^ 
Since receiving the note which I spoke of to you« 
In my last ; and I cannot imagine yet, who 
t 



l46 STOLEN WATERS. 

Its author ca Jd be. I can scarcely think, thoagk^ 

It came from the party that called, as I know 

I neyer saw her before ; but it might be 

Possible, I suppose, that she may have known xne. 

So vexed did I feel, then, that I destroyed it 

At once I but have many times wished, I admit, 

That I had not, as I would have liked you to see 

The note, though 'twas not very likely to be — 

The handwriting — familiar to you. I can't free . 

My mind from the thought that they're yet waiting fo9 

The next visit." 

But /don't at all think sol new- 
Have I any doubt where it came from, as I 
Said before, three or four days ago ; or that my 
Visitor and his new correspondent are one. 



My sister has been wishing mother to come 
And see her, for some time, and when she went hcHne 
Mamma promised to do so. She Wednesday receiTod 
A summons to come on immediately, 
As my sister was ill. So she left us this mom, 
And three or four weeks, I suppose, will be gone. 
I sent him an answer to his yesterday, 
And wrote him that mother was going away, 
And asked bim if he would come out this P.IL 
I looked for his coming 'till half-past two, ¥Phen 
I quite gave him up, and had taken a book 
And been reading some moments, when chancing to 
Out the window, I saw he was just passing by. 
My book was thrown down in an instant, and I 
At the door to admit him. 

He said what I 
Aboo* OBBUBf up to-dajr^ hi did not noto, 



STOLEN WATJgmi li" 

Uudl two o^clock. That mj letter he thea 

Adjust taken out to look over again, 

And afl soon as he saw that he came right awmy. 

I wrote him in pencil, and that wlb in a 

** P. S.," I believe, why he did not see it. 

I told him about mamma, and I admit 
He took it quite coolly, seemed vexed not one bit| 
But laughingly asked why I did not permit 
Her still to think it was the bass-singer 1 

I 
Enquired the first time he was here, by the by, 
Where my letters he kept, and he told me within 
A drawer in his desk ; and to-day I asked him 
If its contents he brought, and he said, no ; that he 
Could not get to them, as he had broken the key. 
But so roguishly I could but know he was not 
The truth telling me, and that he could have got 
Them, had he desired to. I coaxed him to bring 
Them out the next time that he came, but a thing 
Satisfactory I could not get in reply, 
Or nothing, at least, on which I could rely. 
I told him I knew he would ne'er have the time 
For " reading them backwards/" 

While teasing for miu| 
He said not one word of my giving back his. 
K he had, I should not. Had he told me, " That ia 
The condition alone on which I'll return yours," 
I should said aot another word of it, I'm sure. 
I can't give them up, come what may ! So I teased^ 
And coaxed, and persuaded, and he at his ease. 
Leaning back in his chair, laughed in answer, or gave 
BoiTOfttimfiB a caress for reply, or else mad« 



i*S STOLEN WATEB& 

Unto each argument some objectioA ; at leagthi 
He said — -and his tone changed to ice— h« would 
Them, certainly, if I insisted on it. 
But that he had not all of them, he'd admit ; 
When they were about him sometimes, he had been 
Obliged to destroy them, lest they should be seen. 
He thought he would come out next Tuesday again. 
From school Gertie came ere he left me, but went 
Right downstairs ; then he bade me good-by. 

Welly we spflgnl 
An afternoon pleasant indeed ; or at least 
To me. He is splendid^ I think, and was pleased 
Much as ever, to-day, with him. 

But I must not 
Write more at this time. To my ^* friend " many thoof^ii 
I am sending to-night, and with fond wishes fraught. 



Fehrwiry 14^, 1864. 

BUKDAT. 

Quite a nice, pleasant day this has been, and I comfi^ 
At its close, to write here of it ; and I have some 
News, my Journal, to tell you. Last night we reoeiTed 
A telegram, saying the previous eve 
Manmia safely at her destination arrived — 
Fannie's husband it came from — and that his dear wilb 
Had a very fine boy bom that mom. 

Gertie went 
To Turytown yesterday ; brother Frank seat 



BTOLMir WATEim. li* 

f*«r fath«T and I to diiie vdth him to<daj. 

So w« went after caurch. Pasued his house on thd Krajfi 

When we first came in sight) ho was standing between 

The windows, but then he — I think, having seen 

Us coming — sat down with a paper to read I 

So I saw him distinctly. And he is, indeed, 

A darling, I think ; and was charming to-night ! 

But he sat with the singers. The " comer " is quite 

Deserted of late. Well I there is, I suppose, 

More attraction elsewhere than that offers ; who kno^m f 



Febrwvry 28£A, 1864. 

8mn>AT. 

"I'm homesick, and heartsick, and weary of life! ** 
Its pleasures, its follies, its turmoil, its strife ! 
I am weary of all that I've tasted below, 
I am weary of friend, and I'm weary of foe. 
And friends (?), what are they ? When Joy brightens oni 

skies. 
They flutter around ^s like gay butterflies. 
Display their bright colors, their rainbow-hued wings. 
Ah { they're happy, and joyous, and beautiful things I 
But touch their bright spots and their beauty is gone. 
They spread their frail wings, and then soon flutter on. 
Yes ! when sorrow's dark clouds have our heavens o'ercMt^ 
We find, all too soon, their rich hues will not last. 
On a frail " broken reed " we've been placing our trost^ 
Our friends are all &lse, and their vows naught bnt dnit 



130 HfTVLMX WA 



Tbey^rt* our» vhile tin* tuu shinei^ when tluui^ cccdm ih^ 

fly. 
••rm hcMUt>s;.k'k, an.i ht>Art^:ck. and weAry of life! " 
Its dt^A.rt>$t euiovv > ritV. 

lu { < :o AbouDui? 

A:;. ^^/. .> . 

S • .c>.- .>"c\-. dtioujjhts iKai 

Hauu>? IV 

Sou- ^' : -> nidehAud? 

A cu- < ;■> tlnsna, 

> :>At^ troer. 

Meittory poii > \ 

To > ■ <; Svhoilld hAT« 

Tho Ai, 

1.0^ ;- A ik^WTOr I 






-T^f. 



STOLKIf WATUmA 151 

Hut too fioon w© awake from ilio Hwoot, blissful drpara^ 
To find hoarte aro faithloaa, lovo not what it BtMsms. 
Friondsluj> ? ^Tia an oinpty, a luoauiuglosH word ; 
*Ti« fraught with lioart-arhinujs, with siglis bitxathed QJI 

lioanl. 
True *tia U) you when thon^ is auglit to bo gMntnl ; 
Whon noodtnl nu)«<, loavos your fond hoarts to ho painod 
By it>a tickUnioss, untruth, and hoartU^sH disdain; 
To find your lioju^s l»light<>d, your faith all in vaiii. 
Lifo I what ia that ? Ask tho poot or painter, 
Ask him whoso wojik voice with ago daily grows fainter. 
Tho poet in eloquent vocse will portray 
Its joys and its sorrows, smootli paths and rough ways. 
The artist will paint you with light here, tliero shade, 
A cradle- —an altar - a grave newly made. 
The old man will say 'tis a meteor bright. 
One moment 'tis noonday, the next, it is night. 
** Tm hoiuesick, and heartsick, and weary of lifo I " 
There's nothing but bitterness, nothing but strife ! 
Bickerings without, and ttMuptat.ions within, 
Smiles battlmg with tears, and purity with sin. 
Hopes are crushed at one blow, and true hearts Mxt h% 

trayed, 
Love's Eden is entered, homo desolate made. 
Diahonor is stamped upon many a biow, 
Disgrjice hangs o'er those that wero hap]>y but now ; 
The death angel dark hovers o^er our bright land, 
Touching aert^ one, and then^ one, with his icy hand| 
Gathering iu"ound him his nuuitle of gloom, 
Only to drop it o'er some lonely tomb. 
War o'er our coimtry spreads its deso ation, 
Broduv 'gainjit brother., and mitiou 'giuniit natiott. 



162 8TCLSN WATEia. 

Pure streams dyed with hearts^ blood, fielis red tad fVjp 
liyes yielding all up to country and glory. 
Deep is the darkness, tl^e night is dreary, 
T'm homesick, heartsick, of life I am weary. 

It has been a long time since Tve written in heM. 
Two weeks ! that in passing, have seemed long and draac 
Two weeks, which have brought in their flitting to me, 
A few gleams of joy, but much more misery. 
For writing no heart I have had, or for aught 
Else beside where was requisite much composed thou^t ; 
And to-day I so restless have been all the time, 
I thought that it possibly might ease my mind. 
To talk for a short time, my Journal, with yon, 
And something tell you of the past week or two ; 
The record's too humiliating, though, quite 
Too troubled and sad to be pleasant to write. 

The week following his latest visit to me, 
I received not a word from him, nor did I see 
Him as I expected. You know he said then 
He thought he would come the next Tuesday — but wliea 
Tuesday came a most terrible storm raged. The next 
Day was not much better, nor did I expect 
Him of course ! And the rest of the week was, aliJiou|[kL 
Fair and clear, cold intensely, and Zdid not know 
But possibly that might the reason be why 
He did not come up. I wrote him by the by, 
Onoe or twice in the interim. Day after day 
I watched for his coming — a letter- — alway 
To b^ disappointed. And no on<» can know 
How eatless, unhappy, I felt, and how 



M 



STOLEN WATWm. IM 

Dragged <Acli we*rlsome hour. In that way the woek 

With no tidings whatever ; and Sabbath at kst 

Arrived, and I went out to church. H© was there, 

Ai uimal ; but I, feeling too vexed to care 

To see him, my eyes kept averted, nor met 

His own scarcely once. For I could not forget 

How unkind he had been. There may have, I oonoede, 

Been something his coming to hinder, indeed ; 

He mightf though, have written, and not have kent me 

In constant siispense the whole week. Or if he 

Did not ioish to come up here why could not he say bo f 

Vd like it much better than that he should play so 

With my feelings and wishes. 

My father went oni 
To my brother's to dine that day, but 'twas about 
All that Z could do home to remain; and I knew 
I could not be sociable if I tried to. 
So I thought that the best place for me was at home. 
And I spent the whole day between service alone. 
Well ! the next day — on Monday — I sent him a note 
Which was one piece of sarcasm all through ; and wrooe 
Him without fail to come up the next day and bring 
My letters, and I'd nevermore say a thing 
About his again coming up. Tuesday, I 
Was looking for him, and I saw passmg by 
A boy, with a book in his hand, and addressed 
To some one : I saw one initial, the rest 
Hin hand hid- He went on to the end of the row, 
Mode inquiries, came back, rang cur bell, then, and m 
Of course I suspected that it was for me — 
The book in his hand — and i^ thus proved to be. 
7* 



IM STOLEN WATEBb. 

No message he gaye me, but when I remored 
The wrapper, I found a sealed note, and which proved 
To be written by him. There were also with this 
A dozen or so of my letters. Well, his 
T opened at once. Commenced 
« M^^ Bitter-Sweet : " 

" I was gone out of town nearly all of last 
Bat your letters have all been received. All I find 
Is < those letters I want ! ' I told you, the last time 
That I saw you, I had not them all ; and you say 
Not one word of returning me mine, by the way. 
And now as the letters the uppermost thing 
In your mind seems to be, I return half — will bring 
Or send you the rest when all mine I receive. 
This is no more than fair. And you said, I believe, 
That you still had them all ; and if you return them 
You shall have all of yours, not destroyed, and you 
No more trouble about them will have on your mind. 
So busy am I that I cannot find time 
To go up town to-day, even if I dared to. 
*' Yours in haste. 

«* Antony." 

When I this had read throng 
The first thing I did was to sit down and write 
An answer to his, which I mailed the same night. 
By the way, too, not one of the letters returned 
Were of any account. Notes, just fit to be burned. 
I wrote him that I cculd not send him back his, 
If I never have mine. Suppose, thereforw, that is 
The end of the matter — as he said, in fact. 
In his answer which I received Thvirsday And that 



STOLEN WATERS. 15* 

It wwi his intention to say many things, 

But was feeling, that day, so unwell, could a t bring 

His mind to the subject ; that also must be 

Thm excuse for his brevity, 

I cannot see 
VHiat ails him, Vva sure ! There is something, but whiAi 
I cannot conceive. I am certain 'tis not 
Anything JThave done. He is fretting about 
The anonymous letter — mamma's finding out 
About our correspondence — I think there's no doubt 
It is one or the other, or something that I 
Yet know nothing about. In his answer to my 
Reply to this letter, he writes — 

" I received 
Yours this morning, and I can but say, I believe. 
That nothing at all you have said angered me, ' 
Though I did hardly fair, indeed, think it, to be 
Compromised by your making acknowledgments that 
I was your correspondent ; as I could, in fetct, 
Not see the necessity." 

I, in reply, 
Wrote, I thought that if one certain lady^ whom I 
Could mention, a similar question of him 
Had asked, that mamma did of me, he would, in 
His looks, if he did not in words, the whole thing 
Have acknowledged as well. 

In the same he again 
Write*— 

** I cannot your wish understand, that as friends 
We thould part. Surely I Zat least truit there'll be nsBgbi 
But the most kindly feelings between ua, or thcwghta \ 



156 STOLEN WATSnS. 

A.a I've, 1 assure you, no others to you. 

His letter was most kind and pleasant all through, 

And at some length was written. He says near the «(^| 

" T cannot tell when I can come up, my friend, 

As * things is so mixed ;' some I cannot explain 

At present, and had, perhaps, better remain 

In * statu quo.' " 

But as to what it can be, 
Of course, I have not the remotest idea. 
That was written on Friday, received yesterday. 
He sat with the singers, as usual, to-day, 
And looked very handsome. Well I I believ© th«i 
Is all, and I'm too tired to write more, in fact. 



Ma/rch 9th, 1864. 

WEDNESDAY. 

The first part of the week which succeeded my lasl 
Record here, my dear Journal, was quietly passed. 
Father started for Boston on last Thursday eve 
To bring mamma home ; but when ready to leave, 
I could not go downstairs to bid him good-by, 
So completely prostrate with a headache was L 
The night was a wretched one, and, the next day, 
Though better, was not very well, I must say. 
Mf brother's wife came about noon, and I went 
Home with her, after I had first written and seat 
A note to my friend as an answer to one 
I that morning received ; and I wrete he eoold 



STOLEN WATERS. 167 

Or not, as he pleased — he could write me again, 

If he liked, or he need not — that ^twas to me, thea, 

A. matter of perfect indifference ; that 

If he suited himself I was suited. In fact. 

My letter was not cross but weary, as I 

Was myself. I have often, of late, by the by, 

In my mind had a poem I sometime ago 

Was reading — the author of it I don't know — 

Which commenced, " We are so tired, my poor heart aBid I ! ■ 

On Sunday a.m. it was cloudy, and my 
Sister made every effort she could to induce 
Me not to go home ; but 'twas not any use ; 
Go I would, and T did, and was very glad, too. 
That I had, for he sat in the front nearly through 
The sermon, and then in the corner ; and I 
Could not fail to perceive the soft light in his eye 
Bent so constantly on me. And 7" could almost 
Have £Eincied the last weeks a dream, as a host 
Of sweet feelings then surged through my heart. I went homi 
For my letters, and then back to T. ; and I own, 
Though it rained, I got wet — as I'd taken that mom 
The open carriage — I was glad I had gone. 
And am still. 

Brother Frank and his wife went last night 
[n town to see Forrest ; and so I was quite 
Alone with the children and servants. I read 
Moore and Shakspeare 'till weary, and then deciied 
To pencil a few farewell lines to my *^ friend,''^ 
But wrote rather briefly, it being late then. 
I came home to-day, and a letter received. 
Saying mother and father wovid be homa this «pek 
Thogr came about nz. 



168 STOLEU WATEBS, 

And so this is the end ! 
Tlie flirtation is over, and we are again 
Merely strangers 1 And yet, I can ne'er feel the 
Toward him that I did before it we began. 
iL&d I feel assured also, he, too, never can 
Forget it or me. Looking back now, it seems, 
The three months just passed, much more like a long drean 
Than it does reality. It was to me, 
Some parts of it, pleasant ; yet J can but be 
Most heartily glad it is over, and do 
Not doubt but it is a reKef to him, too. 
The whole correspondence has been, in some thingH» 
The most mortifying, humiliating. 
Of any I ever have been engaged in. 
But I think that from it I a lesson have learned. 
And if a few leaves of the past could be tumedy 
And I could begin it again, it would be 
On my part conducted quite differently. 
The truth to confess, I am of it ashamed I 
And presume many times I have thought him to blame^ 
When I have been mostly in fault. We have not 
Each other, somehow, understood. I have thought 
Him unkind, many times, very likely, when he 
Was not conscious of it, nor intended to be. 
Bui he's so much influence had over me, 
And I could not indeed wear my chains gracefoilj. 
But constantly struggling from bonds to be free, 
El[ave wounded myself many times, I can see. 
Of iate, I have fancied, sometimes, that he meant 
To punish me for keeping him in suspense 
So long at the first. If that was his iateai^ 
Wb kaa Kad hia revange I 



STOLEN WATSBS. !*• 



And so, this page 
My journal, or this volume of it, at least. 
For mjr book is quite filled, and this day must completo 
The record of so many unhappy hours. 
And a few most exquisitely happy ones I " Flowers 
By the wayside I " And though springing up among thoni% 
Blooming freshly and sweet, amid sunshine or stcrms. 
Some time a new journal I trust to begin ! 
Biay it be much more peaceful than this one has been. 
Farewell to this volume, to days bright and dreary I 
" Rest \B sweet after strife ; I would sleep ; I am weary " 




STOLEN WATERS. 



PABT SECOND. 



me bitterness, and called It sweet 1 ** 

J. O. 



^Wluit was love, then T not calm, not Beonre, soaroelj kind ; 
BbI In one, all intensest emotion combined : 
tUo and death : pain and rapture : the inflnlle sense 
immortal, unknown, and immenM 1 ** 




Stolen Waters. 



^srt ^ctonb. 



NEW YORK. 



April 2ithy 1864. 



SUNDAY. 



To my new Journal^ greeting I Once more I resaiiie 
Book and pen with my own wayward heart to oommnno. 
I seek, once again, a compjinionship I 
Have most sadly missed in the weeks now gone by, 
Since turning away from tho record, which had 
Been both bitter and sweety and both joyous and sad, 
Closed my book upon tlie irrevocable past, 
And bent heart and will to the yet fruitless task 
Of learning forgetfulness. Lessens, I find, 
Which no force of will, and no purpose of mind 
Oan make me achieve. 

** Tlie grief which doth not 8peak« 
WhispeiB the o'er-fi*aught heart, and bida it break I '* 



164 trOLEN WATERS. 

No foautain but must have some outlet I No heart 

But must have some vent, or but longs to impart 

Its sorrows and joys unto some faithful friend. 

So to you, my dear Journal, I turn once again I 

None more faithful than you, none more trusty and tnM| 

So I'll give my confidence where it is due^ 

A-nd gathering up all the now scattered threads 

Of my life and my heart, will bring each tiny shred 

To be again woven by your silent loom, 

Into fabrics and colors of brightness or gloom. 

The weeks which have vanished since bidding adieu 
To my Journal's last volume, have not, it is true, 
Been quite luieventful ! And neither have they 
Been tranquil or happy. Believing the way 
To learn to forget what was painful and sad, 
And once more to make my heart buoyant and glad| 
Was within it to give to remembrance no place, 
And cease in these pages its changes to trace, 
I've kept tightly closed its escape-valves, and sealed 
Every door to its innermost chambers — revealed 
To none the emotion which almost, at times. 
Seemed forcing an egress, all efforts of mine 
To repress but indeed more rebellious made still, 
Till my heart at length in its struggles with will 
Has come off victorious, and given to grief 
A vent — an escape — and in writing, reliefl 

Well ! to-day for the first time since here I inrote laii^ 
I have looked on the face of " my friend " of the past. 
All these dreary weeks to a sick-room o:)nfined 
He has been, and I, too, in a tumult of mind 



arOLEN WATBB8. 1*4 

Indescribable quite — first, of ignorance, doubt, 
rhen knowledge, anxiety, have been about 
Ajs restless, unhappy as I could well be. 
And in the meantime, has he given to me, 
I wonder, one thought ? Or already have 1 
Dropped out of his life with completeness, no sigh 
(>f regret for the past, for th3 future no hope I 

The six weeks to me have passed by very slow. 
For nearly a mouth he had been ill, before 
I knew what detained him from service. Two more 
Sabbaths since then have gone. When last week I went o il 
" She " was there, and I fancied knew something about 
Our acquaintance, she then looked so queerly at me, 
I presume 'twas all fancy, though ! By the way, he 
This winter is wearing an overcoat light. 
And during the service it hangs just in sight 
In the " corner." The first thing I noticed to-day, 

When I went in, was Mrs. , his wife — and away 

From her face to the " corner " I glanced ; and saw there 
A light overcoat, yet even then did not dare 
Hardly think it was his, fearing still I should be 
Disappointed. But when they began to sing, he 
Stood before me as handsome as ever, although 
Looking so pale and thin ; and a glad light, I know. 
Filled my eyes, as I could not, indeed, fail to see 
That when he came out his first glance was for me. 
How happy it made me to see him again I 
And so, my dear Journal, you see that his chain 
Is gtjll round my neck, and the clasp he yet holds, 
But chains always chafe, although made of fine go^ 



186 STOLMN WArHSSi 

May \H, 1864. 

8UNDAT. 

Again Vm. in much tribulation t This week 
Fatlier changes his business to Brooklyn. He spetkM 
As if toe should stay where we are until fall, 
But expect when he gets there he'll soon want us all. 
And how can I think of it ? How can 1 go 
And leave him^ '' my own? " I shall never, I know. 
Never see him at all I 

I to church went to-day ; 
He >>-JiS thoro, ;uid I «r«K« very ghul, I must say. 
To see he wjvs looking mucli better — quite like 
His dear self. No service, but concert to-night. 



Mai/ St^, 1864. 

Sr>T)AY. 

Well 1 this, I 8upjH>^, is my last Sunday here f 
For the last time, my Journal, I come to this dear 
Little sjinctum of mine for a S;ibb-ath night's chat, 
Of wliich we so m:my Wfore have had, that 
I scanvly c^m force mvself now to Wlieve 
TTiat this is tlie hvst ! That this week I shall leav» 
This liouse in which so many hours I have ^^assed, 
So happy :uui joyous I kuew they'd not last ; 
Hours of sadness, as well, which could not fly too fa 



blOi^N WATERS. 161 

That I must bid ftdieu to this dear little room, 

With associations of both sunshine and gloom 

Bo brimful ; where so many castles I've built. 

8ome have melted in air, some have been all fiilfiLed ! 

My hvst Sabbath here has as usual been spent, 

And is now nearly eiulod. This morning I went 

To church, luui the drst thing 1 saw wjis a dark 

Overcoat, which was hung in the " comer." My heart 

Sank sev'ral degrees. Soon the bass-singer came 

To the front with a gentleman ; both I Siiw plain, 

And thought, " Well I it seems we are having this 

A new tenor, oi- organist 1 " And, although down 

At my seat he kept const^mtly glancing, while he 

Stood talking, I never ouce thought it could be 

My Antony dearest ! and not until they 

Were commencing to sing did I know him. The waj 

Of it was, since the last Sabbath he's taken off 

His beai'd, leaving only his mustache, so soft 

And drooping. It made in his looks such a change, 

So distinct and decided, 'twas not very strange 

That I did not know him, e'en though his dear &oe 

Is so sweetly familiar, and in it I've traced 

Each passing emotion so many a time. 

He looks younger and hjindsomer ; yet, Journal min«^ 

I must own that I do scai'cely like him so well ; 

It miikes him seem almost a stranger ; the spell 

Of his presence has something of newness in it, 

And seemed desecrating the past, I admit ! 

We intend to retain, for the present, our pew. 

When I write here again, I suppose in my new 

But less dearly loved home I shall be. So adiea 

To the memory of hopes, disappointed ones toe. 



lt>S ^rOL.^V WATMBa, 

Which cluster vritliiu this ii»^r t\x>ui ; and a ImI 
Ajhi lingt»rmg firewv?ll to its viiw^uns of the >i«st t 



BROOKLYN. 



May ^2%i, 1364 

SrS'T>AT. 

TVo w^eks since my last writing I In mj new 
In ray new ♦* sanot^im ivvavnorum." once more I oome 
To trac<? one mv>n^ loaf of mv lifo in this Kvok. 
I did not to church gv> last Sablvith ; it looked 
Like ;\ storm, and I was not quite well. But to-daj 
We all of us we.nt^ and I thought I would star 
For the service this evening ; so did not oome home ; 
Witli a friend jvasstxi the interim. Father alone 
Came over this evening. My friend did not go 
To chxirch to-night with me ; my Antony, though, 
Was there mom and eve ; but he sat in his j>ew, 
And wie hwi a new tsenor ; so he has got thro\igh 
With the choir, I conclude. On my going to-night 
To service^ I jvassed by his house ; 'twa^ twilight ; 
The windows were oj>en, and A« stood near on^ 
Binding over a table with his oldest soil^ 
Bi>th consulting a large Kx*k then lyiqg HMveoiL 
I know not if he saw me ; l»ut had not been long 
1b church, when I saw them oome in ; and while ilw 
Was taking her seat, my friend turned towards m« 



iiTOl.Wi WATERS, 1^9 

His ilt>ar faiv, with a sinil© most impassionwl and Bweet; 

And !uv oht>t>k slightly tlushed, and my foolish hoar* beat 

Just tlio lt>iist tritlo tkstor, I i>nvii ; it diil soom 

80 stnmgo, to soo him sit tli>wnstairs ! And I dcHum 

[t a pUvasant coincidonoo i>ur seats should bo 

So noar to oaoh otlior. rivsiimo, though, that he 

Will not bo at ohuich halt* tho time, now ho sings 

No moro in tho I'lioir. '* Phoi-e comes ever somotliiug 

Botwoou us aiul what wo our happinoss doom." 

I sJuUl now soo my tVituul only raioly, 1 woon! 



Octoht^r 2</, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Four woarisomo months havo i^ow^l tartiily i>ast, 
Since 1 optMunl this book, and made in it my hist 
Brief record. And though thoro has, in tho mean time.. 
r>t>en ovout^i of slight import to mo and to mine, 
I iiave not been desirous of writing them down ; 
Haii no wish to oonmuino with a heart I havo found 
Moro rebellious, and more imeontrollablo too, 
Then I CiU'e to acknowledge, now, even to you, 
My Journal anil cinitidant(>. 

All sunnuer long 
We haNe had visitora, and tlie last are just gone. 
My father went out West some thi-ee months ago, 
lletr^rning last wet^k. As for me, you must know 
Fve l)oen doing my best to attempt to forget 
S^oen^ *iud frieiids of the juist, but whoso Lntluenoe jM 



170 STOLES VATEJUf 

Is felt in my heart. And my efforts haw beeiA 

Of but little avail ; and now, down deep withim 

My heart, I am forced to acknowledge a fiw* 

1 was long iu discovering ; one, also, that 

I would now fain ignore ; and a ti-uth, that to bm 

Is so full of bitterness, gi-ief, nusery, 

And humiliation, it does seem, a:; times. 

As if I could hardly eudui-e it; How blind 

I ha\-e been ! but my eyes ai-e wide oj>en at last ; 

And 1 now know, and bitterly know, why the past 

Is yet so indelibly stamped on my heart ; 

Why I dud it impossible, even a j>art 

Of a certain thi-ee months to forget ; and wherein 

Lies the chai-m which has bound me so strvnii^Iv to him • 

Why I never could bivak the enchantment, and feel 

That I once moi-e was fi-ee. No ! I cannot conceal 

From myself any longer, the fact that the thrall 

That for mouths has enslaved me is this : That, with «11 

The intenseness and depth of my nature, I love 

Him, my Antony dearest ! Ai\d that far above 

All others he stands in my heart ; and that no 

Sej>aratJon, or silence, or coolness, although 

It might make me both grieved and uulignant, coidd chaa^ 

Or serve in the slightest degree to estiuuije 

My atTection for him. I may not ever see 

Him again, unless 'tis at a distance, and he 

May not even one tender thought give to me; 

But yet he*s my love, and my darling, my o^ii ! 

And happiness, fiveviom, and peace, have all tlown 

Prom my heart, to make room for the \mweh\Hue gn««« 

Which 1 ^in would exclude. For, it must be ci>niw«ed. 



TKh knowltnipfi^ is not \ov\ gni(<^t'ul ami HWYyit, 
Nor ilot's it :i(U>rvl io mo happinoss doop, 
Oaii it l>t>, tlioiii^h, that /, iiuiojxnulont ami prouil, 
1, who, uioit> than oiuo, srotut'uUy h:»vo avowod 
I Ci")uUi think n.'vn;;h( ot' i>no who did not ran* t*« 



i.R> lor mil, 

Ami inmijiniHl that I wjus " hivirt-whoh», ianov-frxHi *' — 
/am torcoii io routoss, that not only unsoiii:;ht, 
l^nivturn(>ii, I havo U>voJ, hut — t.ho most hittor t.hoii^ht 
i>t* all othors, Nvhov(> nono with nnu'h swootnoss an^ fra.i^i^h^ 
I ha\i> in my lu'art ^^lu■iIu^^ i\\c (aco o{' tv man 
^Vho is boiuui io anothor, and who novor can 
Anythinoj ho io uio. ({oil tVui^ivo mo, I pniv. 
Ami pilv mt\ l0i> ! 

In t.ho wookvS |vusst>il away 
Sinoo hoivin 1 wiv^to last, Tvo a now^ nu>thoil trioti 
To mako mo t\>r^ot. A tlirtation, that vioii 
With tho k'ust, ono in ni>thins;; ami was, on my Rul<^ 
iVrrioil on with snoh woary imlitVoronot*, it 
Oouhi mo not mnoh ploasnro atVoni, I ailmit. 
I hopoil io (ovi:^ot, in anothor's toml smiU>, 
i>ao whoso s\vi\»tnoss hail ilono, oh ! so much to iH^giiilfl 
i\ly hivut t'lx^m it^ poaoo. l>ut. t.ho man was not one 
1 oonhl ovor oaro much t\>r ! a.ml now it is dom> — 
Tho tlirtation ami all thoro is h>t't is a low 
Fomi lottois, woll-writton and kluti, it is truo, 
Ami a photognvph. With not a rlu>Ui;ht of ivgret, 
I havo hviii tliom away. 

Many lottors I yot 
From Oolonol Allair am roooiving. llo wn-itos 
Not<xs most }>loasi!\g and tnu> ; and \\o says lio is quite 
Oaptiyatod by our oorrospondonot^ ; anil noVr 
Will forgot mo, ho knows! Woll I porhaps not; If e'et 



1T2 STOLEN WATERS. 

Ho ia tiied, we shall see! But we always agree, 

Never jar in the least. Says he hopes to see me 

Before very long, as his time has expired, 

And he'll now soon be home. I can't say Tve desiroJ 

To see him th^'s fall very much, and presume 

He will alter his mind about coming so soon 

When he my next letter receives. 

I have been 
To church frequently, but have rarely seen him. 
One morn, I remember, when going up town, 
\ saw him on a car that passed by, coming down. 
How glad]\\^t that one passing glimpse made me feel! 
Though a slight tkige of sadness began soon to steal 
O'er my heart, as the old potent charm was revived, 
Bringing with it vain longings for what was denied. 
I felt all the morn, I perhaps should see him, 
But hoped that to church my dear friend would have bees. 
I went up to-day. He was there ; neither gave 
To the other much notice ; in fact nothing, save 
An occasional most careless glance. And he went 
Out of church just ahead of me, talking intent 
With a gentleman friend. Afterwards, I passed bj 
Him so closely, my dress must have brushed him ; out I 
Neither spoke, nor yet looked, just as if he was nH 
My Antony dearest I acd in all my thoughts. 



flTOLEN WATERS. Hi 

October ZOthy 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

Was in town yesterday, and went into his store. 
I bare not for a long time been in there before. 
I did not inquire for him, purchased a book, 
And while I was doing so he came to look 
For something near where I was standing, and aske«l 
His partner some question about it, then passed 
Back, returning a moment thereafter, and stood 
By the counter, where when I should pass out I could 
But see him. I sometimes have thought that he would 
Ne'er again speak to me ; I have so many times 
Decidedly cut him ; but he was as kind, 
Yesterday, in his manner as ever ; and I 
Of course bowed and smiled too, as him I passed by. 
But though I was outwardly calm and serene, 
I trembled excessively ; but did not mean 
He should know I was moved ; neither did he, I ween. 

Were to-day both at church. He, my dearest, and I ' 
And his eye met my own more than once. By the bjr, 
I think he still likes his quondam " Bitter-Sweet," 
Just a little, and no one with him can compete 
In wy heart, no person at least that I've met, 
Thongb I fway see some one that I like better, t^ 



174 STOLEN WATERR 

N'avemher 19th, 1864. 

SATURDAY. 

Been to clrnrch only once since the last time I wrotfl^ 
And naught has occurred that is worthy of note. 
That day I remained all the noon time in church. 
Went up in the choir for the first time, in search 
Of traces of him ; but found nothing ; but sat 
For a moment within the dear " corner ;" in fact, 
In the very same spot where my friend used to sit, 
But one brief year ago ; and from it to transmit 
Many thoughts, looks, and smiles down to me. 

Do you know 
My dear Journal, that it was just one year ago 
Yesterday that I sent my first letter to him ? 
How brimful of sweet recollections they've been — 
The two days just passed. I wrote him, by the way, 
A. note to remind him of it, and to-day 
Was in town, and went into his place, but did not 
Have a chance to deliver, without doing what 
I disliked very much — to inquire for him ; so 
[ purchased a book, went where else I'd to go, 
And returned, and accomplished my object that time. 
How handsome he looked ! and how pleasant and kind 
Was his smile and his tone, as he took from my hand 
The parcel I gave. He is splendid, and grand I 
ily letter ran nearly like this ; 

" My dea/r * tTohn ' / 

'^ Don't it look to you singular, boom 
what, that form 



STOLEN WATEHS. Vtl 

Of address at the head of a letter of mine ? 
For though 1 have written the same many timeSy 
To you before, never ! I write to you now, 
Not thinking you'll cai-e much to hear, I'L allow. 
But because I just now know not what else to do. 
And because I feel, too, just like writing to you. 
I have not forgotten how wrong it is, though, 
I wish that I could ! But I ask you for no 
Reply, and write only because to me 'tis 
A gratification. 

" Do you know it is 
Just one year to-day, since my first note to you 
I wrote and despatched ? It does seem, it is true. 
Hardly possible, but so it is ! Ah, my dear. 
This cold, wintry weather, so frosty and clear, 
Brings back very forcibly old times to me. 
Does it to you also, my own ' Antony ? ' 
And do you ever think, I would much like to know. 
Of this time, but one little, brief year ago ? 
A smile quite involuntary sometimes says 
You have not entirely forgotten * B. SI' 
As to me, I like you just as well now as then ; 
I liked you the first time I saw you, and when 
Our brief correspondence was closed, you, my Mend, 
Were not the less dear ; and I like you, too, still. 
Although inconsiderate, unkind, you will 
Admit tJiat you often have been — will you not ? 
I remember of your saying, once, that you thciight 
There was, 'tween the sexes, no such thing as love ! 
rhat ^twas mostly mere passion — or that was alovt 
Pure affection predominant. /^ don't believe 
Vou really thought cto ; nor did you conceive, 



176 STOLEN WATERS 

My dear * John^ how conclusively that remark pro^eOi 

rhough sixteen years married, you never have lovedL 

If this 18 your opinion, I differ with you I 

For I — shall I say * love ' f yes ! for it is true, 

That it, in this case, means no more than I like, 

And I think it is, too, somewhat easier to write — 

Yes, love you I but not with one passionate thought. 

Am contented to see you, and, though I would not 

Be sorry to have an occasional chat 

With you, my dear friend, I am well aware that 

I have to your love and caresses no right. 

Nor do 1 care for them. It is to me quite 

Immaterial whether you like me or no ; 

If you treat me unkindly or kindly ; and so. 

You see, nor your smiles nor your frowns can disturb 

My calm equanimity ; neither can curb 

Or enhance the full flow of my spirits. 

<< I thought 
I saw you a few days ago, but was not 
Quite certain of it — on Broadway, I believe. 
Trusting you will with pleasure this letter reoeiTe^ 
And sending you love and a kiss, 'till we meet, 
I am still and am only, 

** Your own, 

<<Bitter-Sw«et* 



STOLEN WATERS, I'/t 

December IKA, 1864. 

SrWDAT. 

December ! and almost the middle again I 
Oun it be that a whole year has flown by since when 
I, with trembling delight, received letters from him 
Who is still more to me than all others have been ? 
This fatal and singular passion 1 will it 
Be never quite conquered ? And must I admit 
That my heart beats in fetters I'm powerless to break ? 

A heavy snow-storm, yesterday, could but make 
It impossible I should go up town to-day, 
I wonder if he was at church, by the way, 
If my seat looked forsaken, and if my friend wished 
That I had been there, or my presence once missed. 



December ISth, 1864. 

SUNDAY. 

To-day was a beautiful one ! and I went 
To the old church this morning ; and he, my dear friend, 
Was there, and alone. In fact, " she " has not been 
For some time at service. I could not see him 
Ab he sat at the first but then some one came in, 
And he moved to the end of the pew. I would liked 
To have been one seat back. Thought I noticed Lim wiita 



178 STOLEN WATEBa. 

During prayer, but I might been mistaken. He 
Across after service, and passed down the same 
Aisle witli me, and directly behind me, in fact, 
Ajid with our soprano conversing ; and that, 
'3f course, made me jealous. Her husband, although, 
*^'as vdth her. And what he was writing, also. 
For her might have been, or it might been for me, 
And no chance to give it he had. Indeed, he 
Might not written at all. I distinctly could hear, 
As we came out, the tones of his voice, of that dear. 
Perfect voice, which I've heard very little of late I 
Those musical, fine, tenor tones ! which vibrate 
On my ear ever sweetly. To-day I could see 
He was some agitated ; perhaps it might be 
From his then close proximity — was it ? — to me ? 
Or caused by the woman with whom he conversed ? 
I dislike her ! Was jealous of her from the first. 

We've a houseful of visitors ; have, in fact, had, 
With but short intervals, since July. I'll be glad 
When we're once more alone ; for I am all the time 
So imhappy, or blue, or despondent, I find 
It an unceasing strain on my heart and my mind, 
And my nerves, and my temper, to be with my ffiendl 
Even decently sociable. What wonder, then. 
That visitors bore me, and that I would fain 
They were gone, that we might become quiet again t 



STOLEN WATERS. 179 

December 25th, 1864. 

SUNEAf. 

Christmas greeting to you, my dear Journal, once more I 
Went up town last evening, and called at the store 
On my way, and saw hiin, too, my dearest 1 Did not 
Have a chance, though, for speaking. Did he give a thonghti 
I wonder, to one year ago, or to me ? 
In the chapel last eve was a concert and " tree ; '* 
I went, and remained with a friend for the night. 
Went to service to-day, and I was surprised, quite 

To see Mrs. , his wife, was there also, with him, 

f jooking fair, and as fresh, too, as ever. Had been 

A long time since I'd seen her before. We'd to-day 

A fine Christmas sermon, indeed, I must say. 

This P.M. went to Sabbath-school, then returned home. 

On my way to the car passed his house : and I own, 

What I saw there both pleased and surprised me some, t«o I 

Sitting back from the window, and yet in plain view. 

Was my Antony dearest I and close in his arms 

A bundle of cambric, and soft flannel warm. 

Containing a baby, I could but suppose. 

Sleeping sweetly, an infant's undreaming repose, 

In arms that would fain shield from all earthly ^ tea, 

That tiny, frail blossom. I think 7" could sleep, 

Held within such a clasp, a sleep dreamless and dee^^— 

Sleep foiever ! and never again wake to weep. 

** 'Twere delicious to die, if my heart might grow cold 

While bis arms wrapped me round in that passionate fbtnL' 



180 STOLEN WATBBS, 

That is what I had never expected to 
A babj in his arms, " mj own Antony." 

One thing somewhat vexes me : I've sometimes thoTigkl 
Of late — though perhaps it is fancy — ^from what 
I have noticed at church, that not only his friend 
Mr. F., but his wife, from beginning to end, 
Knows about our acquaintance. And yet, I can't think 
He ccmld make a jest of it ! Feel he would shrink 
From aught so unworthy ; yet, think I wiU write 
And give In'm a chance for defence, if he likes, 
Not condemn him unheard, which would hardly be lij^lb 



December 31»^, 1864. 

SATUBDAY, 

Last Tuesday our visitors all went awaj. 
And I wrote a letter, I think, the same day, 
To my Antony, as in my last record here 
I thought I should do. Stated first, full and dear, 
My suspicions, and grounds for the same ; the effect 
Such thoughts could but have on my mind, hoping jfA 
1 might be mistaken. Would bo but too glad 
Could he prove to the contrary ; and if he had 
Any wish to himself exculpate, or had aught 
To say on the subject, I'd meet him, I thought, 
Between one and three on the next afternoon, 
If he chose to go up, at clie L.'s reading-room. 
The next day was stormy, but in the p.m. 
Looked a little like clearing, so started ; but 



STOLEN WATBB& 181 

I had walked a few blocks it was raining again. 

For a car I tlien waited a long time in vain, 

Bo walked to the ferry, I caught one at last, 

On the other side, tho' ; 'twas a few minutes past 

Three o'clock when I reached the Library ; and he 

liVas not, of course, there at that hour. As for me, 

Though 1 would have braved anything to have gone — 

Did brave fearful travelling, a severe storm — 

Yet regretted my folly when it was too late ; 

Came home with the world out of humor, with fate 

And myself in particular ; and in a state 

Of discomfort in body, as well, being both 

Cold and wet. Though I saw him not, still I am loth, 

Even yet, to believe my own charges. I could 

Not love him at all, I am sure, if I shquld. 

Many things might prevented his keeping that day 

The appointment I made. And indeed, though, he may 

Have been there and gone ; or my letter might not 

Have reached him in time ; or else he may have thought 

That it was so stormy, I would not be there. 

I'll give him one more chance. 

I hope 'twill be fair 
To-morrow, for I very much wish to go 
Up to church ia the morning ; but all day the snow 
Has fallen unceasingly ; so I shall be 
Obliged to stay home, very likely, I see. 

To-day is the last of this changeable year I 
So filled with both sorrow and joy, hope and fear. 
The last hours are speeding ! All day T have thought 
Of one year ago — of those hours that were fraught 
With so much of gladness to me ! Of that day, 
Bie happiest ever I spent, I must say. 



182 STOLSy WATSS& 

I shall never forget 'jt ! 1 wonder if he 
Reiiunnbors it, tOv") — if he but eared for me 
Only just h<ilf AS mueh a$ I do about him I 
And, indeed, how do 7" know, but down deep withia 
Tht most saere\i room in his heart, there is traced 
My name, and in letters whieh naught can efface? 
He is not demonstrative, and it may be 
I am more to him, even, than he is to me. 
Farewell to the year *' sixty-four," so replete 
With associations both bitter and sweet I 



Tanuitry '2d,, 1866. 

ilOXDAY. 

It " miide believe" storm all the day yesterday, 
And there were no paths ; consequently, away 
Fi'om c)\ureh I of course was obliged to remain ; 
So my '• New Year's Day " this year, both opened uid 

waned, 
Without having been noted by any event 
Of import ; and so did the hist, yet I've spent 
FeN\ days that were moris fully happy than that. 
And neither was this quit<» unhappy, in fact. 
And tt-vday has been jubilant ! For, tliis aju., 
The tarrior came here with letters; and when 
He had given me two, he then Siud, "Let me see 
If I have not ajiolher for you I " and then he 
ra:<sed me one, too, from — him^ my own darling ! *nd I 
Ciuild not tell you, my Journal, e'en tho' I should try, 
How surprised and how pleased I w is, too, to once mor» 
Uavt a letter in hi4 well-known hau 1, ^ of yore. 



STOLEN WATERS. i8fl 

It w»s both short and cold ; but a very few linios; 

Vet more precious to thia wayward, fond heart of miney 

Than words of the most ardent love from another. 

*Twas addressed my whole name ; and on each of the otheit 

He has my initials used only, and I 

Did not know that he knew what it was. 

By the by, 
I ought to have had it on Saturday. States 
Received mino on Thursday ; adds, " one day too IcUs,^^ 
Said— 

" You do me, indeed, gross injustice \ Ym. do 
Such person. Should written you some time ago, 
But did not know where to address, and do not 
Hardly think tliis will reach you." 

I never had thougl^ 
Of his wi'iting, and so, did not send my address. 
That was all that he wrote. There was not, I confess. 
In that, aught to go into ecstasies o'er ; 
Yet, coming from him, it has given me more 
Of pleasure and gladness than aught else could do ; 
And lias rendered my Now Year most happy, 'tis true. 
I sat down at once and wrote him a reply, 
Both loving and long ; looked it o'er — laid it by, 
And teiking a fresh sheet, another one wrote, 
As brief and as cold as his own icy note. 
There was a groat contrast the letters between I 
One the heart had dictated, from th' wealth and the 
Of its jubilant love ; and jthe other was traced 
By a hand which was guided alone by strait-laced 
Decorum, and cold, worldly pride ; and the one 
Which I sent was the last. 

One more day is now doiu^ 
And auspiciously one more New Year has begun ! 



J'cmuary Utk, 185ft. 

SUlfDAT. 

I made aii apjK>mtment for Tiiestiay, p.m,, 
But it raiueti harti all day ; couse^|ue.ntlv a^ub 
It wa^ misiikHi. Yostonlay IM a lot tor, altlioug^ 
Saving any p.m. of next w^et^k ho would go 
To tho T>. to iiuvt mo. 

To-day tho wind blew 
Exceevliugly hanl, and >\\'as ♦' bittor ov^ld," too; 
But I >wnt up to cXwwk^x. Vd forgotten to »j 
That a stONv^ird to mo camo, I think tho hist day 
I was up thon*, and a.'^ktxi mo if I would object 
To {fitting ouo soat farthor Ivtok ; ho oould let 
Our jxnv to ad\ autagi\ and thought as 'twas rart 
For any of us, but uiN-self, to be there, 
Tliat wo did not cj^ro tho whole soat to retain, 
And that l\i very prolvibly not mind the ohanga. 
And c/i</ I V Well ! not very much, I admit. 
And oortainly made no objection to it* 
For, of eoui-so, if I s:\t just one yn^w farther bade, 
I should thou Iv dirtvtly op].H>&ite that 
Oooupioii by my Antony doart^sts If we 
Both should at tlio inner end sit, there would be 
But a thin, low jMirtition l>etweeii us. This moim» 
I did not know what wiis decided ujK>n, 
So took my old place. The new ocouj>ajits, thouga, 
Were then\ This p.m. there \^-as service, also, 
To the mem'ry of one of our fallen heroes. 
rhej wen> thers, too, and thought it quit« stranfii, 1 
ix»e, 



8T0LBN WATERS. 185 

To notice the change ; or, at least, she stared some 

When I took my now sent. Tlie number of one 

Of the first hymns, she failing to catch, at once looked 

At him, but his oycs were then bent on his book; 

W"itli a gesture just slightly impatient she then- 

Furued to me, so 1 passed her my hymn-book, and when 

8h« returned it, of course bowed and smiled pleasantly ; 

We were both in the; corner, and so could but be 

Veiy near to each other. How little she knew 

Of the ties indissoluble binding us two I 

That ehs was the one only barrier between 

Him and me, in more senses than one, too, I ween ! 

For as sJie sat between us at service to-day, 

So in all things she parts us, both now and alway. 



tTcmuaury 27^A, 1865. 

FRIDAY. 

Last week an appointment for Thursday I mada 
And again were frustrated my plans, so well laicL 
One of the L.'s patrons is recently dead, 
And I in the paper on Wednesday eve read 
That the L. would be closed on the following day, 
[ was mu(5h disappointed and vexed, I must say. 
But I not being able to help it, was forced 
To make the best of it ; supposing, of course, 
That he would have seen the same notice, also, 
That morning at latest, and so would not go. 
But lest he should no^ have, I wrote him agai% 



18ff j^ousir WATBsa. 

Saying why I that day should not come in, and thes 
Making one more appointment for Tuesday p.m. 
Vhere seems on our meeting to be a spell set ! 
But all obstacles only make stronger yet 
kly will and desire him to see. It has been, 
Oh, such a long time since IVe spoken with him. 
Since my hand with fond pressure has been clasped in klB ! 
Almost a whole, long, weary year. Yet he is 
My love, and my dearest ! and what wonder, then, 
I desire with insatiable longing again 
To stand face to face, hand to hand, with the man 
Who to me is so much ; and that also I am 
Quite ready to sacrifice any amount 
Of pride to accomplish my wish ; and would count 
It all nothing, compared to an hour's chat with him? 
And thus far, in fact, our acquaintance has been 
A sacrifice constant of pride on my part. 
Pride is strong — strong enough ! but yet love in my heart 
Is more potent still ! and IVe found, it is true, 
That in a contest 'tween the sentiments two, 
Love always is conqueror ; that I'm a slave, 
And each effort to sunder the fetters, which chafe 
Me so sorely, but rivets my chains stronger yet, 
While I 'neath their clankings still hopelessly fret. 

When Tuesday arrived I in town went once more. 
And stopped on my way to the L. at the store. 
He was in ; I was certain he saw me, though I 
Did not speak with him. Oh \ but I bought, by the by, 
A paper, the first one I thought of, and found 
When carelessly k '>king its columns a-down, 
rhe first poem he sent me, " Yon Kissed Me! '* mm ia iK 
I 'went \o the L and I waited, while minute 



STOLEN WATER& 181 

By minute flew on, and still he did not come. 

I at? last gave him up, and then started for home. 

Vexed, provoked was I ? No ; those words cannot expraii 

Half how angry I was. Far more so, I confess, 

Than heretofore ever I h^ve been with him. 

Feeling certain he knew very well I was in. 

And that, if he had not intended to go. 

Or could not, he might at the least have said so 

When I went in the store, why, how could I but feel 

Very angiy, indeed ? Neither did I conceal 

How incensed I then was, in the letter I sent. 

I was very cross witli him, and also meant 

He should know it. 

To-day, I received a reply. 
Though its contents were read with a quite tearless eye, 
In my heart was such sorrow as never before 
It has known ; for I felt sure that now was all o'er, 
And strangers we were to become evermore ! 
But I was not conscious how plainly was traced 
The grief and despair I then felt, in my face. 
Till a friend coming in had expressed much concern. 
Being sure 1 was ill. I could but have discerned 
From his note, that he was, indeed, only less vexed 
Than I was when I wrote. Neither was I perplexec^ 
After reading his letter, the reason to know, 
Nor could I then wonder at his feeling so. 
He never has sent me one cross word before ; 
And I — well ! I've written to him many more 
Cross letters than kind ones, I'm fearful ; but then, 
I get angry one minute, the next pleased again, 
While a person not easily vexed frequently 
Betains their displeasure some time. And so he 



IS5 STOLEN WAr£S& 

Haw^ once got pnoTt^ed, or in anger at me^ 

Will uo\r not forgi\-« me, I fear, readily. 

My *' note \ras insulting," he wrot^^, and 1 cx>uld 

But Aokuovrltnig^ its truth. He presumed that it w nld 

SkK be in aocoi\l:uict? with etiquette, should 

He ;i lady's vroixi doubt ; :vnd that therefore, as 1 

^iid I \}fw that he s;iw me, he had in reply 

N"Augh: to s;\y. And apviii. nents he Wpt ; 

The til's: time he found tlie l i the next 

Xo one there that he knexr ; and ^ last t^o 

Had K - > ' ' " 

^> •...: :o do, 
I at first hanlly knew But then, conscious thai I 
Had wrongeil him, I coiild do no le^Ss. in reply. 
Than acknovrled^ my error, ;md thus make amends 
For my unjust^ int<»m^>erate langua^^ and sexid 
An a[K»logy too. stipulating that he 
His forgivenei&s should prove by his keeping with me 
The ap|vnntment which I should make nejtt ; so I 
And he will to-morrow, I think, hare mr nota. 



Fhbnmy 7ik, 1865. 

TTESDAT 

Nothing new or of import, since h^re 1 wi^ote 
Have not Iwn to service for two Sabbath* 
So him I have not seen, aid neither have I 
R^>eived any letter from him, in reply 



STOLEN WATERS. 189 

1V> the one whic bi I sent more than one week agow 

If hs could pass that by unanswered, I know 

Not what he is made of. I sent this p.m. 

A very cool note, and appointing again 

A meeting for Thursday. And failure this time 

Will crush out all hope from this poor heart of mine \ 

B^orcfcd to yield to despair, 1 will never again 

Elxpect aught but misery, sorrow, and pain. 

** He tosses me bitterness," truly I Must I 

With a stone be contented when bread is so nigh, 

Or with husks, just because the fruit's hanging so high f 



Februa/ry ^th, 1865. 

THURSDAY. 

Far more happy to-night than my words can portray, 
I have seated myself, the events of to-day 
To transcribe in my book ; but my heart is so ight, 
So jubilant, joyful, and so filled with bright. 
Sweet thoughts, hopes, emotions, I scarce can compose 
Myself to write calmly, this evening, of those 
Events and sweet feelings. 

Well, /need not say, 
f presume, my dear Journal, what rendered this day 
Such a glad one to me ! What has rolled far away 
The lowering clouds, shown the bright " silver lining,'* 
That " behind the dark cloud is the sun still shining." 
And that ever 'tis " darkest just previous to dawn.** 
What else covld have turned into roseate morr 



190 STOLEN VATEBS. 

My l.eart's midnight, except that to-day I fe 
And that he is still, that he ever has been, 
My dearest dear friend ! 

This P.M. I went in, 
And at the Library I waited for him 
(Jntil three o'clock, when — he c&me ! What a bound 
Of delight my lieart gave, as my darling came down 
The long room, to where J was then sitting ! How bright 
Was the smile on his lips, and how sweet the soft light 
In his eye, and how pleasant his musical tones. 
As he murmured his greetiag, and pressed in his own, 
With warm fondness, the hand which I gave! Then hi 

drew 
A chair close to miae, and sat down. And I knew, 
Without farther words, that my love was " still true." 
What a nice chat we had ! and all, too, was explained 
To my satisfaction, 'till no thought remained 
In my heai-t but of kindness for him ; and it seems 
All the trouble was caused by his " prudence " extreme^ 
He likes ;;i5 just as well now as ever before. 
And I — well ! I own that I like him far more 
Than words can express ! 

Oh ! the reason that I 
To my penitent letter have had no reply, 
Was that he was away, so it was not received 
Untn his return — I think yesterday gve — 
When he found it awaiting him, also my laat, 
Appointing to-day's interview. So we passed 
An hour or two there in the most pleasant chat; 
A nd, as we were coming away, he said that 
if Td not get cross any more, he would be 
A good boy in the future. He a^so asked ma^ 



STOLEN WA1ER8. 191 

Once or fc^vice, when I thought I'd be in town again* 
And said, too, that if I would let him know when 
He'd try and come up. I of course was too glad 
I'o promise. We walked to my car, where he bade 
4ie good by, and then left me. 

How sweet 'tis^ onoe aiore 
To feel we are friends I all unpleasantness o'er, 
AJl difference reconciled ! What wonder, then, 
[n my heart smiles and sunshine are nestling again f 



February \2th^ 1865. 

SUNDAY. 

I have nothing to write of since Thursday, except 
Our sweet reconcilement, and perfect, has kept 
My heart constantly buoyant and glad. Was to-day 
Up at church, though it snowed when I started away, 
And was bitterly cold. He was not there this mom, 
And I thought possibly on account of the storm 
Might not be this afternoon either. Of late 
We've service had in the p.m., I must state, 
[nstead of the evening, as usual. I'd not 
Have gone up to church this cold day, but I thought 
I would much itke to know if my friend would appear 
Any different now than before. Well I my fears 
In regard to his absence were all put to flight 
When I Mw him come in. We were both of oa c uite 



l^iJ STOLKS WATSJtS. 



Alone iu ■-"^r tv-wc <> l- = 


^. '-nhing to do 


But kV:. 


• .^ uuprov«»d, tOAl 


Toaa>.r 


He 


Seiit ff-i:-:-, :_:_, _,./., 


. ux\ to UM» ; 


Kejn .v-s.-utly turne.i :. 


, 'Lu his f»c>e 


rh^ SA-in ". - ' " 


■\e iATS 


Lv^ug i;v.. 


.■.u<«," i 


A ud 1 ftmov 


:' us plVO ;\1 


To t^ ; ' 


uot. 


An.i , . . 


.:ht 


for me, Mv 


:v.; : il.-.v .'..■\ I loT« 


Ll.^NV ,>^^--:o-;'v 


* ' ' > Ix^'c'.n I 



iBdeH 



-unigh 

know 



As I h.iN 
.. o' 

l^ .... ...._. 

I hou^tit— jus; 
Wo t^v-day sfti in ^ 
Uo iuid I 'W«»t».\:: 
lu X©w York, flv 
Kcniu>'a\\vr it then. 

I wroto A ■:' 

IVlV 

rhv 

To i... 

Whc»U NV. 

1 of 





—when 


■'■"■ -,'; 


^ l>eoime n«w.* 




'O, 




■.;ue 




.-.r, in finft, 




:;ome 


I did 


uot, I own. 


. lusd. 


t<x>! 




^ his ^>ew 




^^- didiw4 




•.ght 




■..n caKne 




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, 1 admit. 


, ^ 


.'.: il' he saw ft| 



JSlVLUjy WATKRS. 198 

llo could join mo. lUit Mr. S., whoa ho vaiuo out, 

Took his ana very coolly, walkoii with liiui uhout 

IVo blocks, juul then loft him. The rest of the way 

i Lati him mysolf ; and altJiough, I dju'o say, 

It waji Vii^hly " impnulont" — our walking (ogotJier — 

T!waa uouo tho loss ploa^saut. It stormed, :uid the weathet 

Wiw feaifullj cold, yet I gave it no thought ; 

His |)re86uoe with life, warmtli, and smisliino waa fi-aught» 



Mbruarf/ 23rf, 1865. 

THURSDAY. 

Nearly two ploiisjuit weeks have now glided away 
Since my last reconl here. I had mtuie for to-day 
An apjHnntmont. ^Twas cloudy, ami so, hardly kueii 
About going in, what 'twas bt^st 1 should do. 
At length I decided 1 would ; and was glad 
Aft<nwAril that I diil so. A book, that I had 
Been wishing to p\ircliase, I onlorod through him. 
So I thought on my way to tlio L. Vd stop in 
At his plaiv, get my book, also thus ascertain 
Was h^ going up ; that I might not. in vain 
Have to wait if he could not. Ho sat noAr the door^ 
Ajid he seldom remains in that j>art of the store. 
He sprai.g up to spe^ik to me, kee})uig me there 
Fir mon> than an hour. It was ijuito priN^ito where 
We were st^juuliug, and not many people were in. 
But rd not the slightest idea 1\1 been 




104 SIVLEX WATERS 

lliere so long , *nd whs quite surprised, too, I Must my 
That he wished- -as w^ evident — ^that I shonld stay. 
And wonder he thought it quite ** prudent/' Aw»t 
Time rapidly hastenevl, and forced me to leave. 

To a masquenuie ball, thev were going this eve. 

He and Mrs. , his wife, I tried to induce 

U\m to tell me where now wei^ my letters. No use 

I found it to coax or to tease ; he refused 

To inform me, or rather he told me, 'tis true, 

So m:mv improbable storie^ I knew 

Not which to Wlieve, I asked him if heM oome 

Out to see me some time ; but he thought he'd not mm 

Any risk ; I inquireii, if for no other one 

He had riske<.l any moiv, S;ud, decidedly, " Nol " 

Very flattering, truly ! Perhaps it is so. 

" With ease we believe what we aixiently wish 

To lie true I " He, however, did promise me this : 

That if the next summer our j>eople should be 

Awiiy, about three huudivd miles, lea>-ing me 

All alone, he would try and come over. He would 

Go up to the L. the next time, if he could 

Get away from the store. Would l\ave gone up to-day. 

Very likely, if I had not called on the way. 

Many thoughts :md swe^^t oue^ of my dearest to-night I 

God bleas and preserve him 'till momin|;'s fair U^tl 



STOLEN WATERS. 19S 

May 31«<, 1865. 

WKDNESDAY. 

The last day of May 1 Aiid I find it has bee a 
rhree montlis, .md more even, since I have withim 
These pages a single word traced. Also find, 
Glaiiclug backward a little, this journal of mine 
Has of late more a simple heart-record become, 
Than aught else beside. The truth is, to no one 
Can I speak of the pain which at times I have f^und 
Unl>earable quite. And the festering wound 
Forced to ever conceal, it to me gives relief 
Sometimes to give utterance here to my grief. 
And therefore I wiite of it. Common events 
Have, of lat«, been to me of so little moment, 
I have come to ignore them all here, though each week 
And ^ach day brings its own, either bitter or sweet. 

And as to my love, we have met now and then, 
Sometimes at the store, at the L., or again 
A few times at church, ouvje or twice in the street. 
He has been just as charming whene'er we did meet, 
But IVe made some appointments that he did not keep 
And sent him some letters, to which a reply 
I have failed to receive. I wrote him, by the by, 
About three weeks ago, a short note, to which I, 
Requesting an answer, directed it sent 
•« To remain at the offirje 'till called for." I wen* 



IW STOLEN WATSSSi 

In to .vn tc the L. — though it stormed — on tie d^y 
[ looked for it ; \rheii coming down, on Bnxidway, 

[ saw ou tlio .- :^'- ^^': :^^' - stiwt, 

1 fiu-^ auJ a f- ^ iiuvt 

>r jvjiss without nc 

Peivt"v ^ ■-' 'f^— . ,,..u ,,v ^..■^txi ;o Fark Rot 

Ajtui •>' towHTvi home, 

Elnthvlv .IS his •• A- ' ,^wn " 

Elad so ii:.-.-. '/im. 1 • ■< e Ivou vrlad 

^'ith him jus: ^d, 

A.S ii m^itter of ^\^uv^o ; b;;: i t.li0Ui;:i: L would re 

i^uito eontouuHi if I should tiiid wiring for me, 

A.t the otiiv.v, a letter from him, a;? I ho^vxi. 

A.ud IdU ' -' "^ , ! I op^ 

Ajid it^ ^ r rused. 

Aud time in mv spirits intustxi 

N'ow ..\. T'^ " ^. iov. By tV.t^ ^v■.y, we, I dnd, 

B^nh c-i'^^ ' m ohuTvii i: : v.^ same time, 

.Vud each quite ui. 

This ere, 
I !isjj;iu w vi I BelieTe 

N < -iS dlNTipp 

1 ,; o ^. . ..:iu up. 1 ,-— ... .:..:--:-^ ^uch 

Aggnnutiou aud tortun? much long^^r. I am 
Of.vmfortar.' ' ^ i how can 

Any one Iv s. - > I 

He is rm>fr tl. ^^i^» is more than unkind. 
And yet, I su > Iv, 

DcK^ not kuo^^ > me. 

Maiiy times Tve re^^lveil I wotild never apiin 
Either write him or '- - -"tment ; and thea 



9T0f£X WATERS. 197 

Irresistible longings for tidings of him, 

Or desires for one glimpse of his deAr face, have beeA 

Triiimphtmt, mv good resolutions disj>elled, 

And while pride remonstrated, tvnd I have ielt 

To the utmost my folly, have ^^Titten agimi. 

Why my fate muM it been to have loved thiid in vain ? 

But I will not complivin ; right and best, I doubt not. 

It is, and ivbellion is quelled by the thought 

That underneath all there's a long-broken vow. 

Would I could forgot him ! nor ever allow 

Him a place in my heart any moi^. 

I intend 
At the sea-shore to pass a few weeks with some friends, 
And expect to pu soon. So, my Journal friend dear, 
Until my return, I shall write no more here. 



J\tli/ 20th, 1S65. 

THURSDAY. 

At home once apiin ! And howpleasiuit it seems! 
" There is no place like home ; " and although all my dreamt 
Of pleasure were fully, I think, realized. 
And the time gayly passed by in siuls, walks, and drive*, 
Yet sometimes my heart turned with longing, I own, 
To the quiet and peace of my dearly-loved home. 
While absent, some lettei-s I had from a friend. 
One with whom, 1 believe, I have pi*evious to tl'en 
Had no correspondence. Permission to write 
He requested, and /thought perhaps that it migKi 
Be to me pleasant, also, so gave my consent ; 
Stipulating, howeT-er, in its commencement. 



198 STOLEN WATERS, 

No love-]C»assage there should be in it. He tl ought 
Of the " Jieart disease " I'd a slight touch, but 'twould noi 
A lasting blight prove. Would that he might be right \ 
He wrote me nice letters, and though I was qi,ite 
Glad to have them, yet I, caring nothing for him, 
His letters in consequence, when they had been 
On<;e perused and replied to, could not be to me 
Of much farther value. 

From home frequently, 
Of course, heard while absent ; from Colonel A H ai r 
Found, when I arrived, one awaiting me there. 
I also had five or six others from him ; 
Some from Annie, my friend, who a long time has been 
My dear correspondent ; and from my love — <m« / 
I wrote him before my departure from home, 
To say I was going ; if he liked to write, 
I'd be most glad to hear. I'd been staying in quite 
A different part of the town, a few days, 
And so, when again I returned to the place 
Where my letters were sent, I found several there. 
And the first one I saw was addressed in his fair, 
Well-known hand. 'Twas not long, and neither was it 
Especially pleasing or kind, I admit, 
And I sent him no answer. Yet I was more glad 
To receive it than any besides that I had. 
Was not well — he wrote — and that letter to me 
Was the first he had written in some weeks ; and he 
Ought not even then to be writing. Had \)een 
Very busy indeed ; and expected, wiiain 
A few days, out of town to remove ; but did not, 
Of course, tell me where, though he could but have tliovghl 
IV be anxious to know. 



% 



STOLEN WATERS, 191 

Mamiaa now soon intenda 
To go into the country a few weeks, and then 
J think that for him I may possibly send, 
And give him a chance to his promise redeem. 
km he will, if he yet cares about me, I ween ! 



August \8i, 1866 

rUESDAY. 

I am thoroughly wretched, and reckless aswelll 
What of late has come o'er me, I scarcely can tell ; 
But I've felt for awhile, as if at any cost 
I my>st have my love ! And my heart, tempest-tossail 
And despaii'ing, is utterly desperate now. 
And I will be something to him, I avow 1 
For him I have sacrificed my peace of mind, 
Independence, my pride, happiness, and, in fine, 
Everything but my honor — am tempted to say 
That if I can have him in no other way. 
Even that shall go also. To him, all the de^'pest, 
And freshest, and fondest, the purest, and sweetest 
Emotions and thoughts of a heai-t only hs 
Has power to thrill — all the wealth of a free 
And impassioned fiist love — and one, too, felt to be 
The one love of my life — has been long consecrated, 
And he cares for it nothing ! I am aggravated 
Endurance beyond ; past resistance am tempted ; 
Eidiaust^d with being fix)m pain ne'er exempted ; 



^^^ 820LEN WATEm. 

And weury, and heart-sick of struggles to gain 
The mastery over this hopeless, and vain, 
This humiliating, tormenting, and quite 
Uncontrollable love. Indignation, grief, pride. 
On my part — indifference, coldness, neglect, 
On his own, do not have e'en the slightest effect, 
Except more completely to make me the slave 
Of this fierce, overpowering passion. Things gra^e. 
And not pleasant, are these to acknowledge, I knoir 
Nor anywhere else but here could I do so. 
But all confidences are sacred with you. 
My Journal, my friend ever silent and true! 
Feeling thus, I have written a letter to him, 
And written like this : 

«MyDear<,/bA»;' 

"Openiiig 
My casket of letters, the first thing that met 
My eye was one written by you, and not yet 
Acknowledged. My time being quite occupied 
While I was away, and I having, besides. 
Many letters to write, I did not answer youra — 
As it would not matter to you, I felt sure. 
But since having seen it this morning, of you 
I've been thinking much ; our relations unto 
Each other reviewed, and have now come to write 
To you the result. 

" In the first place, Tm quite 
Resolved upon this : that the state of things now 
Existing between us I wiU not allow 
To longer continue. Fou very well know 
It has been to me most aggravating, also 
Cnpleasant, at, times — our acquaintance — althougjk 



iSTOLEN WATERS. ^01 

i presume that it often has been my own fauli. 

More than yours ; but some things have excessively galled 

My sensitive feelings, when probably you 

Were unconscious of giving oflfence. It is true, 

I have written you letters, and more than a few, 

Such as no gentleman to me ever would sent 

More than once ; and your very forbearance — well meant 

As I doubt not it was — has sometimes made me more 

Aimoyed with you still. You have exercised o'er 

Me a strange fascination ; and, bent to your will 

My high spirit has been, and pride also, until 

I feel I can't longer endure it. I may 

Have told you, perhaps, the same thing ere to-day ; 

But then it was written on impulse, and now 

I am deeply in earnest ; and you will allow 

That if you have found me * all things at all times,' 

I at least have been always sincere ! 

" Now, in fine, 
I am ready to meet you upon your own terms, 
Or to meet you no more ! just as you shall discern 
Will be best. You know very well why you came 
To see me the first time ; with motives the same 
If you now desire calling upon Hic again, 
I shall be glad to see you. You told me that when 
Mamma was * three hundred miles distant,' you then 
Would come over ; and now is the time to fulfil 
The promise you made — and I'm sure that you will. 
If you have the slightest regard for me still. 
Should you come out here once, and you then do not chooM 
To do so again, I will ask you to lose 
No more time for me. But I think you will not 
Regret it, if you should decide to come out. 
9 



2f52 STOLEN WATEBB. 

And 1 think that indeed it is m'^h m^re for y<mr 

Interest than it can be for mine, I am sure ! 

i expect to receive you on Wednesday p.m., 

Between one and five, unless I before then 

Hear something contrary ; and you will pleasA write 

Should you fail to come out. 

" Now in closing, good-nighi 
With kind wishes for you, and with hopes we may meet 
Before many days, I am 

« Yours, 

« Bitter-Sweet." 

I do not much think he will come, but he may; 
And suppose, that it too would be best every way. 
That he should not — for him, and me also — and still, 
N'otwithstanding all " prudence," I do hope he willl 



August 4^A, 1865. 

FRIDAY. 

My mother and Gertrude went off Wednesday mom, 
And some five or six weeks they wiU doubtless be gone. 
And when afternoon came I expected him some. 
As no note I'd received, saying he should not come. 
Watched and waited, but vainly. I did think he might 
Have written, at least ; though 'twas possible, quitey 
He intended to come, and could not get away, 
And so would bo out on the foUowing day. 



STOLEN WAIWR& 203 

The next morning the carrier brought me a note 

From him, and my heart seemed to lef.p to my throat 

As I took off the wrapper, expecting to find 

That he could not or would not come out. But this time 

I was, if disappointed, agreeably so. 

I ought to have had it on Wednesday, although, 

As 'twas written the first. Said that he did not know 

Until the receipt of my letter, that day, 

That I had returned. Then he went on to say, 

Had business way down town that p.m., so he 

Thought that he'd steal an hour, and sKp over to B. 

Told in detail his search for the house, and then writes : 

" I rang at the door, which was then open wide, 

At about three o'clock. A young lady replied 

To the summons, who was not B. S. ; so I thought 

J might justly conclude that your people had not 

Gone * three hundred miles ' out of town, or else they 

Had come back in a hurry. Am going away 

To-morrow, and may return Friday ; if so, 

Will see you if possible." 

Well ! you must know, 
My Journal, this letter was, to the suspense 
And doubt I then felt, a relief most intense. 
I could not, at once, though, remember at all 
At that day and hour there had any one called. 
But at last recollected that some one did ring> 
And of Gertrude, who went to the door, directing 
A gentleman up the street farther ; and thought 
At the time, what a soft voice he had ; but did not 
Once dream of its being my friend ; and am glad 
*£hai,t 7did not go to the door; If I had 



1^4 STOLEN WATIRRla. 

S\>mo suspouso, tliough, *t>vould savtnl \m!», of course. Bui 

Oortnulo 
Did not iwoi^iii-o him at ull, I conclude, 
I wondortxi if A<» heani me sc^Idlug ; 1 know 
I >\*n:s foarfully nt>rvons tmil orv>ss ; th.>ught also, 
Ho porhiipjs luiijht hivve Stvn nio : I snt just in&id© 
Tho lvrtC.k-l>iVi-lor. Nviih l\>th t\>lduii;-d>.Hn-s o^vu \ride. 
l>ut ho Sii.iJ ho did not. That nv-us T^iosdav ! tho d^r 
IVfoiv uiothor Aud (.Ttu-nnuio woro L;oiiii4 iiwivy. 
And this Ht'toruoou ho was hovx^ I iuid is still 
^ly K>vo ! iuid my durliui; 1 I t'ooJ tliat \mtil 

his iliiy I've iudotnl uovor kuowu hiui. T find 
I'vo ot'rou misJudgtHl him ; for ho. 1 kind. 

Of tho i\vkU>i>s.uosj> in my U;st lotu : \^ :>sc\l. 
No iulvanUge did take ; but, instead, I ovniu ss, 
IV'HttHi mo with tho ntmost rt>iS}H>ot, Frioudship truA^ 
Kog^uxl iltvp ttud Nvurm, and nuioh tondoruoss, tiX>, 
Was betraytni in oaoh notion tuid woul ; aud yot, he 
Not ovon ttt pai-tiug so much as kissod mo! 
Oonolnsivoly pivvt\l how unjust I had K\m, 
l\v an imptvjHU- motive ascribing to him, 
In his tiT-^t vis-its to mo. 

I uovor aj7» read 
lliu\ at all ; and his heart is a st^aUxl Kx>k indeed I 
To think ovil of him, I am too much it\olint\i. 
St> in this oasc\ at loast, I'm suiv, lo>o is not bliml 
I aui ,< ^ tlnd that my darlv ae ! 

And t\\ . . . .• lu f>iirful ^vril K\ ... .... 

And thank iiod I am s^ifo. For had A<< prv>vt\l to b« 
lx>{is hononiibie nobu>- ' d uu''^ — 

I know not I might h;iN i to '\>«ijai^^ 

And ixataral virtuo I ^1 j s.^xist. 



But Vm tlumkful, at lo;usi, thai I tluni wjitt lu t tritnl, 
And tliftt I Imvo .it loni;th all his gooJr.oss lU^.'l•itH.L 

1 4t<Hxl tiilkiag with Holla, my tViouJ, at ht r pitr, 
JLl-I still hoping, altliough •• m\ lovo ho was latol " 
Wlieu 1 saw hliu appivaohiug. My iioart gjwo a l>ouad 
And st^Hxi still, a:> I ojitoivd the luniso and siit down, 
A-i\d oiuloavouHl my tiubulout jnilses to calm, 
Whilo I wa.itod his ooming, and know that tho man 
Whom I lovo *' with a lovo pas&ing knowlodgt^," woilw 

soon — 
His doar solf — Ih> Iv^do mo in thin vory room. 

Ho has movod np to llarlom ; noxt door, 1 lH>licve, 
To his tathor. Ho wont alnnit six. All tho ovo 
My hoiul has aehotl foiU-fuUy ; so, without light.s, 
I'vo Slit in tho window and droamod. And tho night 
is j>orftvt.ly lovoly ! 

One moi\) hap})y day ! 
Yet a happiness, douhi/ul, somewhat, I must say. 
He Riud ho would come out agidn the i e^vt week. 
God bless him tt.v night, and tVoui ail diingei keep! 



August bth, 1865. 

SATURDAY. 

Ofcn it lx> thai but yesterday he was with me T 
That my hand w:is one* more oIiwsjkhI in his, and that he 
Then re6t<\l his dear ht^ad awhile on uiy kut^ V 



sot) ibTOTjEiV WATfCHS. 

For Iio, woiKl-woHiv mail lio, my iiuK)loiit boy, 

Must iuhhIs luivo H K)uni;o, aiul my hip must omploj 

As rt pillow. Am bliio to-ilay ! thoughts of '* what might 

Huvo boon," orowil so olv>«o «^n my hourt^ that iu spito 

Of luysolf I am siid. I oxpoottnl, toHiay, 

A liOto from my lato oonvspoiuloiit. Must stiy, 

Tiiough lumo was loooivod, I omvd not; for, as long 

As ho is '' my own,'" what bosido oaii I wiuit? 

My doar oiio I yt»t noC iiiiuo, aiul never Oivn Ih\ 

l>iit I must not tlwiUl upon this; it ma.ki\s mo 

Too tmtiix^ly uiilinp[>y. Ah, truly ! '* The grief 

Of atreotii>ii bot inyod is but taiuo aiul brief 

Beside a t'orbiiKleu love's utter desjuurl" 

(^tnl pity aiul love me is my earnest pi-ayor. 



Auffti^C Othy 1805. 

SUNOAY. 

Olio uioiv break iug out of tiio oKl wi>uudl Tivniajr 
I have Ihhvu far morx> nus^'ablo t.ha.11 I eaii say, 
llavi* not bi>en out at all ; ami I hanlly have loft 
My ivom siiiee (lie imnii, and for horn's i have wept. 
\Vi\>t<< to luotlun-, but only a uote. (7<hU(/ iu>t writA 
Why onuuot I eoiupier this passion, whose might 
And intensity elioki^s me, and tills my poi>r heart 
Witli sadness so often * IiuUhhI! wo tniMt part! 
1 must give him up; he eaii iu>ver Ih> miiM^! 
1 am very unhappy if he is uuki^ud, 



tnVlJiJN WA'JEIiS, «0> 

And if proofs of iitfectiou he gives me, then \houghis 
Of — not what T have lost, but of what I cani.ot 
Ever gain, and that ho is not only not mine, 
But another's instead, rushes on me at times, 
With such force iis completely to overwhelm me, 
4nd my self-control, hardly-won, break down utterly ! 



September I2th, 1865. 

TUESDAY. 

Xis more than a month been since I've written here, 
d "ud ^thin that short time — oh, what ages of fear, 
Hope, pain, and suspense IVe endured and lived through. 
I thou^'ht I'd before been most wretched, 'tis true ! 
But uoi hing that could in the least be compared 
To this, '^ave I ever experienced. There 
Has day t*fter day been, when all I have felt 
Was a longing desire for " escape from myself, 
And oblivion of time." When from this to that place, 
With a quit ) tearless eye, but a white, anguished face. 
Have I waiivCered ; now pausing awhile in my room, 
Drawing doww the blind close, and with darkness and gloou 
Replacuig the i uiilight tliat mocked my despair — 
On my bed for wwhile, lying silently there. 
Then ciouched on the floor with my heait in a chftir 
Down stall's in tho parlors, a book in my hand, 
But the purport oi which I could not understand ; 
And then perhaps ^>lkiying a haJf-dozen chords. 
Which had much lesa >>f harmony than of disoord, 



208 STOLEN WATEBB 

Or leaning far back in a rocker, in vain 

Endeavoring tlius with the turbulent pain 

In my heart to keep pace — Oh ! my God alone knows 

TIow brimful of agony to me were those 

Few weeks, at length ended forever. It seems, 

Looking back on it now, like a long, fearful dream ; 

For a calm has succeeded the storm, or, at least. 

The exhaustion that comes with severe pain's release. 

Two weeks I looked for him almost every day, 
And vainly. A letter he wrote then, to say 
He had met with an accident, somewhat severe. 
On the cars, which some days had confined him, and feared 
'Twould be several more before he should be out 
Permanently ; was going right home ; when about. 
He should try and come over. My hopes this renewed, 
And confidence too. One more week ensued, 
And then I began to expect him again. 
One day I in town went, with Bella, my friend, 
And so at the store called, in order that he 
Might know I was not home in case he should be 
Intending that day to go over to B. 
But he was not in. The clerk said had been out 
For more than an hour, and 'twas doubtfiU about 
His again coming in. I supposed, of course, then. 
He had gone to see me. Was in torture again, 
Until I reached home, and found out he had not. 
The next day was in town again ; therefore, I thoufhl 
To end my suspense I'd make one more attempt. 
Or at least ascertain if he really meant 
To come out or not ; so I called ; he was in, 
But 80 busy I had but a few words with him. 



STOLEN WATERS. 309 

He said he iutendecl to come out that daj. 

But had so much to do he could not get away. 

Had had some reverses in business, and then 

Was not his own master. I had that a.m. 

A letter from mother received, saying she 

Should be home the next Thursday. I told him, and he 

Said that he would come over that day, if he could ; 

Could not say with positiveness that he should ; 

But would unless business prevented. But I 

Then gave up his coming ; and Thursday passed by 

And I did not see him. 

The next morning brought 
From mother a letter, and stating she thought 
She should visit Boston before she came home ; 
Consequently, should some two weeks longer be gone 
And one from him also, and saying that he 
Intended that day to get over to B., 
But found it impossible ; as he was quite 
With visitors over-run, and had beside 
His hands full of business, and knew not at times 
Hardly what he was doing. And then wrote, in fine, 
" Dcn't feel cross with me, though, I have got a head wind 
But hope for fair weather again, by and by 1 " 
TMs rather brought me to my senses ; and ^ 
Felt ashamed that I had been so cross with him then^ 
Thus adding unto his annoyances, when 
He already was quite over-burdened, although 
I, of course, did not know he was troubled. And so 
I fidly resolved that another cross word 
I would nevermore send him, whatever occurred 
When I oould not write pWsantly, I would not 



210 STOLEN WATERS. 

My mother and Gertie arrived home to<nighty 
And the mis'rable past I am trying to seal 
From sight, La my heart's darkest comer ; but feel 
Iti effects will not be quite so easy concealed. 



8«ptemhvr 19^A, 1865. 

TUESDAY. 

To-morrow our place of abode we shall change, 
And I shall write " home '' in a house new and stranfa 
To-night, for the last time, I sleep in this room, 
And leave it with many regrets. Just as soon 
As 'round a place bright recollections of him 
Have clustered most fondly and sweetly, we've been 
Forced to leave it, and in a new place, to begin 
Our home-life, and therein our home altars re^r. 
Better so, perhaps ! Thoughts of him are not, I feaf, 
Very good for me ; and, although I have to-day. 
In outward appearance, been lively and gay, 
'Twas only to cover the aching within ; 
Only to drive away sad thoughts of him, 
And my love that's so hopeless ana vain. Many times 
Tears unbidden would spring to my eyes, and I find 
Them hard to repress ; but I knew 'twould not do 
To indulge them, so they were forced back, and none knen 
Or dreamed of the pain I was hiding so well. 
Many things occiir daily, of him to impel 
Bemembrance ; and when I begin to forget 



STOLEN WATERS. 211 

Some light, tiifling thing will bring all back, with jet 
Greater force renewing each banished regret. 



November 2rf, 1865. 

THURSDAY. 

The morning my birth-day again ushers in ! 
And with it, of course, a new year I begin, 
With most earnest hopes that its record may be 
More tranquil than this one has been. Yes I I see 
That is what I desire — a calm, after the dark. 
Stormy night ; and sweet peace for my sad troubled hearl 
But when I shall have it, our God alone knows. 
But not 'till I cease to do wrong, I suppose, 
And learn to do right. It is so hard to feel. 
At all times, that " all's for the best ! " hard to kneel 
And kiss with submission the hand that would smite. 
The last year passed swiftly away. If I might, 
I would not recall it ; some parts have been quite 
Too unhappy. I have not recovered, as yet. 
From the anguish — or rather its blighting effect — 
I endured in those drear August days. And must aay, 
I could fancy myself ten years Adev to-day 
Than I was at that time. I look back, too, and feel 
With surprise, what 'twere vain to attempt to conceal^ 
How much deeper, more tender my love is for him 
Than 'twas three months ago. And yc t, I within 
These pages stiU hope, ere a year from '^o-night, 
Of the end of this unhappy passion to write. 



812 STOLEN WAFBBB, 

Decemb&r 31«<, 1865. 

SUNDAY. 

IVe written " eighteen sixty-five," I suppose, 
For the last time this year. And I write at its olooe 
One more anniversary to commemorate, 
The dearest, and sweetest of all I When, elate 
With the joy of his presence, I had not a thought 
B-at that he was with me. And how fully fraught 
Were the moments with gladness I Yet Zdid not dream 
That I loved him ! How strange that I could not have 
What it meant — such infatuation 1 That day 
Was, without exception, I think I may say, 
The happiest one of my life ; one which had 
No bitter enwreathed with the sweet of its glad 
Happy moments — ^just two years ago I 

It has been 
More than four months since I have had one glimpse of hia 
I wrote him on his birth-day, some two months ago, 
And once since — on the last anniversary, though, 
Of our correspondence's commencement. To these 
No reply I received, or expected — though pleased 
I of course should have been to have had one. To-night| 
In remembrance of two yea/rs ago, I shall write. 

For two or three weeks I have quite ceased to grie're, 
And have not been so cheerful for months. But last 9r§ 
After I had retired, the old billows once more 
Surged over my heart, breaking down, as of yore. 
All the barriers my hardly- won self-control 
Hod attempted to rear, a^in flooding my soul 



STOLEN WATERS. 31S 

With the bittei aud turbulent waters. At times 

It is «o hard to feel he can never be mine, 

But is always another's ! The Colonel, my dear, 

Kind friend, does a great deal my sad heart to cheer ; 

And his letters, so frequent and loving, to me 

Of inestimable value have long come to be. 



Jmma/ry 4th, 1866. 

THURSDAY. 

Thia day should be marked as a " red-letter day t •* 
It has been, oh, so happy, and yet, in some ways, 
So miserable also I The bitter and sweet 
In wy cup invariably meet and compete. 
The carrier brought me a letter this mom, 
From my love I And 'twas not short and cold, but mort 

warm 
And pleasing than any before I have had. 
While its contents perusing, tears, happy and glad, 
Welled up to my eyes, and, unheeded, brimmed o'er. 
I glanced with haste through it, then turned, and once movt 
With loving delight read each word. On my mind 
Slowly dawning a consciousness for the first time. 
The thought that it was barely possible he, 
My love and my darling, might also love me. 
I scarcely can credit it ; dare not believe 
That it can be true. 

Ho wrote he had received 
Mine the previous day, and intended tc write 
At once ; but was called off before he htd quite 



214 BTOUSN WATBBB. 

Got Htarted, and so was obliged to forego 

Until tl»it. time, lie blamed himself much — aaid t^ao-- 

That he'd not before written in answer to mine J 

Had honestly meant to, but from time to time 

Had deferred it, till he was ashamed to, and then 

Was fearful that it would not reach me. Again 

And again he most kindly assured mo I'd not 

Been forgotten, I was not to think ii ; had thoL|(ht 

Of me very often ; and that he would like 

Very much to see me ; also said if I'd write, 

And at the L. mako an appointment, and soon, 

But not 'till a late hour of some afternoon, 

He'd keep it, if i)ossible. Zmust not be 

Disappointed, although, if he should not ; as he 

Was upon circumstances dependent. 

IVe been 
Expecting to go East this winter- vithin 
A few weeks from now very likuly shall go. 
And in my last letter, of course told him so ; 
So wIk^ii I am going he vdj.hcrt to know. 
And where. And he seyA that he certainly must 
See me ere I shall leave. And his wishes, I truBt| 
And mine also, may gratified be I And then he 
In closing writes : 

" Do not think hardly of me. 
Or judge me unkindly. I'm not what I seem 
To be, in many wa)'s, and would say many things 
That I dare not, and possibly ought not." 

I am 
So glad, now, I have not been cross 1 But how can 
I help thinking he loves me ? If I only knew 
That he did— though 'twould be " stolen waters,** 'tis trM»-> 



STOLEy WATERS. 211 

[ could then separation or sibncw onduro — 
Anything^ if I could of his lovo but bo sure ! 
Thus the New Year again brings me happinesa pum. 



Jcmnia/ry 18^A, 1866. 

THURSDAY. 

Is it possible that in my journal this v\'^ 
I write for tho last timo in Brooklyn ? Auil !««▼• 
To-morrow tho plac(5 f;ndoared to ino y)y so 
Many sweet recollections ? And although I kncrw 
That it is the tnith, I cannot bring my mind 
To realize it as a fact. 

For some time 
I've written so soldo rn and briefly, I find 
I neglected to state that some Um months ago 
My brother to Boston removed, and also 
That father has been ther(5 some months, and intwidi 
To have us all go in the spring. Of course, then, 
I shall not return. And my last inornents here 
Are shadowed hy a disapj:)omtmeut severe. 
I made an appointment not quite two weeks since, 
And which he failed to ke(;p. But yet, being crnTinoeil 
That ho was not in fault, I did not feel cross, 
Although disappointed, as lie doubtless was. 
I am going away sooner than T have Vxicii 
IntendiDg to do ; consequently, wrote him 
To that effect ; also ap]:>ointing again 
For Tuesday an interview ; but it rained then^ 



216 STOLEN WATBSa. 

And jTdid not go. Yesterday I went in 

And stopped at the store. On inquiring for liiniy 

To my consternation as well as surprise, 

That he was at home, sick in bed, was apprised. 

Thus again were my dearest hopes blighted ; and I 

To Brooklyn and home forced to murmur good-by, 

With no farewell word from my love, whom I've not 

For fire weary months once beheld. Oh ! the thought 

Almost breaks my heart I It is cruel, I'm sure, 

And bitterly, bitterly hard to endure. 

To my brother a letter I'd written that day, 

Intending to mail it that evening, to say 

I should be there to-morrow. I stood a long time 

At the office, with it in my hand, half inclined 

Not to send it at all, but to write them, instead, 

That I should not come on. Looking forward with drefti 

To an absence from home while my darling was ill, 

With no hopes of tidings of him, as, until 

I should know he was well, I would not dare to write ; 

And he knew not where to address. Well I might 

Hesitate ! But the true reason I could not state. 

And I had no other excuse. 'Twas too late, 

I decided at length, to turn back ; so I sent 

My letter, and then, with an aching heart, went 

Up town, and the night with my friend Annie spenlt 

She had risitors, and the whole eve was to me 

On) long torture ! 

And now, a sad farewell to Bl 



STOLEN WATERS, 211 

Ma/rch 31»<, 1866. 

SATURDAY, 

The first month of spring ! and my record agaixi 
Is in Brooklyn!, and home I I imagined that when 
I once more was here I should quite happy be; 
But there is so much of him to remind me, 
That it keeps me sad constantly. Then I have not 
Been well, either, since my return, and no doubt 
That my spirits helped some to depress. Father thought 
When I left, it was doubtful extremely about 
Our moving to Boston this spring. Gertie, too, 
Was quite ill, and they were " so lonely," I knew 
That I ought to go home, and was glad so to do. 
Although every efifort to render my stay 
In B. pleasant was made ; and indeed, I must say 
Was unhappy much less than I feared I should be ; 
A.nd Fannie, my sister, returned home with me. 

Of course, of or from my friend naught I had heard 
And was anxious, exceedingly, too, for some word. 
So when I was home a few days, I went in, 
Ajid called at his place for some tidings of him- 
Found he had been ill all the time I was gone ; 
But was better then, and would be out before long 
About a week later was in town once more, 
4nd having occasion to call at the store, 
To purchase a book, casually inquired 
If he was within, with no thought the desdre 
10 



818 STOLEIi WATERS, 

Of my heart would be granted fulfilment. Was glad 

To learn that he'd been down that day, though he had, 

The clerk said, just gone out. Some days after, we 

In New York, on Broadway ; b'lt, to my great regret, 

He had with him a gentleman — Fan was with me — 

So content with mere greeting was I forced to be. 

Nothing but aggravation was that, when not once 

Had I seen my darling in seven long months. 

Then I wrote ; but receiving no word in reply, 

Went in to see him. He was cordial ; but I 

Was quite cool at first, 'till I found he had not 

Been able for months to read, write, or do aii^ght 

Of the kind. His physician forbade it, and feared 

That another attack, if as long and severe 

As the last, would entirely deprive him of sigh< 

My dearest ! May God, in His infinite might, 

And love, such affl^.tion avert. I suppose 

He suffers intensely when prostrate with those 

Prolonged and repeated attacks ; and he says 

He's often delirious, unconscious for days ; 

And when sane, he can neither endure Kght nor wms kA 

And days of convalescence roll tardily 'round. 

lis a nervous affection, and is the same thing 

That connned him so long in the wearisome spring 

Of two years ago ; but his health otherwise 

Is robust ; and unmarred are his beautiful eyes, 

Though his sight is impaired. 

He said he wrote dm 
r.(»st week, just as well as he could, although he 
Was fearful that I could not read it, and though k 
[t was doibtfiil if he could himself. He forgol 



STOLEN WATERS. 219 

My address, and so it to the post-office sent ; 
And I called tliere to get it as homeward I went 
Twas written in pencil, and all sorts of ways, 
And formed, to the usual neatness and grace, 
With which he is wont his nice letters to trace, 
Quite a contrast indeed. 

He told me that one 
Of my letters was sent to the house ; it had come 
To the store, at the time he was absent — at home. 

Mrs. thought that it " looked like a lady's fine hand.* 

*Twas quite likely a bill, he made her understand. 
He does- not come in town until late, he told me, 
And leaves the store early. How nice it must be 
To have hin« at home so much ! though perhaps she 
Does not care about it as I should. But this 
I musjb not dwell upon, a topic that is 
Forbidden to me. 

I was quite calm that day 
In my interview with him, and have been, I must i«y> 
Ever since. Can it be I am loving him less ? 
Oh, would it were so ! dare not think it, tho', lest 
I'm again overwhelmed before I am aware 
With its might and intenseness, its bitter despair. 



AprU 27<A, 1866. 

FRIDAY. 

I iaw my dear firiend about two weeks agOs 
When was made at the L. an appointment, alihong^ 



>JSC STOLRN ^ATSBSi 

Htf twiiil if 1 Oiui.t" i:\ hoM liko me to i"*!! 

At tht> stoiv on my way. Hut I do not at all 

Liko to go tlu>rt', ami told him so also, but h« 

Insisting upon it^ I could but agrtw 

Tht< iLiy [nx>vious to that wo appointod, a note 

Frtuu him I nwivod, and in whioh ho Mum wrote 

Ho might bo away tho no\t day, but it' not 

Ho would at tho stoiv Ih>, alxnit thiw^ o'clock. 

Htvsitating awhilo about gvung, at Uwit 

I dtvidt\l 1 would ; it was just qunrtor j^ast 

Whon I ontoiovl his plaoo ; on inqxiiring for him 

Was iutornuHl ho had stopjunl out, but soon would be i% 

Supposing of coMxso that such word ho had loft>, 

1 waittnl and waitovi, until, quito Ivivft 

(^f [Vitiouoo, I papor itupiivxHl tor, and wivto 

With hasto a fow linos, of ivni^t^ U.iMUi; tho not<?i. 

1 trvKN- nithor surprisoil .^it how .-i'. .' „ . though, I 

Ttx>k tho mattor: iliil not, a.s in days now g\.>ne by, 

Ftvl at all oivss with him, noithor waf< I so mudi 

Pisiippoii\tod tis ofton 1 am undor suoh 

(."'iri'mnstauivs, 1 ftvl i|uito onoouragtHl ! Ht^fow* 

1 hav-^^ thought 1 was not quito so nuioh as of yore 

In Oiiptivity to him. tint om^ intorviow, 

Or a K>tt(M- from him, has dis]>olU>d, it is t.ruc^ 

All my faiu'ioil inditVoivmv ; but it has stood 

Now both tosts. 1 WHS vo\od with mysolt, that I ahooM 

llavo waitod. I in^vtn- bot'oio li.uo Jono so. 

Nor should I tlum, had I not nMson to know, 

*^r think, that ho soon would Iv in, A fow davi 

Tlu^>aftor, a !u>to I n \ hou ho savs 

Ho wt>nt in that day p.. ^ , . . ., .'.' .vv vk<. 

Waiting tliort^ at tho stoi:> 'till <^wclvo miuutos uast thr0% 



And then rpturn(Hl homo tipun, lus hcM Horte man 
At work ou his |>luot», ami his |>rost>uco with thcra 
Wa» vtx[mvx\\. Ho woiiUl soo mo this woi^k. 

In rrjMy, 
I wrote that I thought it \vu8 ilt>uhtt*iil if I 
WouUl Ih^ ttbh> to oomo in this wook ; if I ooiild, 
Tlia* l\\ lot hiiu know, but, that 1 oortainly aUould 
JV^o/! ctill at tlw sfoir. Ni\'ir tho closo I \vn>to, though, 
If A*? mjulo an appointuiout, I thought I might go, 
And to do as he likod. Vnii it's m>\v Friday ove. 
And ho lijii^ not; indood, tlu>iigli, I hanlly WHovod 
Tliat he would. Hut I thiuk tho timo will coiuo when h»» 
Will mjiko jui appointtutMit, juid anx^ious, too, be 
That I fthould fultil it. Ami Til >vait and see. 



April 2Sth, 1866. 

BATURDAY. 

I dreamtHl all tho uight of my friend, and io-daj 
Tlie cjirrior brought me a letter, to say 
He would bo at tho L. abo\it tivo thi*' i.«n. 
Bo he's niado an appoiutuiont ! That's sometliing thai 
1 vrrote here hist night that ho shouhf do sometime 
1 dn^unuHl not wouUl happou so so(.>n. To my mind 
That was proof ho wai? wishing to »cc mo, a:^ he 
Must have sinni by my note \was a matter to mo 
Of iiiditforonoo. So I proc^cdod to make 
If J toilet with htisto, fearing I should bo Uta 



222 UTOLEU WATEK'^. 

But I reached th3 L. first. He came soon, and w© 
A happy hour there; then we parted, and went 
Each our separate way — ^he desiring to see 
Me again very soon, and I happy that he 
Should have and express such a wish. 

He told me 
He sang at the " old chu/rch " last Sabbath, and should 
To-morrow as well ; 1 shall go up. It would 
Seem indeed like old times to see him in the choir. 
I go at his wish, and my own strong desire I 
I asked if he sat in the *' corner " ; said, " yes. 
And it was nice to be there ! " Did thoughts of B. Si. 
And the sweet olden time make it nicer ? I guess 
That did not from the charm very largely detract. 
We did have, as usual, a most pleasant chat I 
I allowed him to hold my hand — gloved — in his own 
For quite a long time. 

Ah, my heart I where has flows 
Thy boasted indifierent coolness? The last 
Test was fatal, I fear. Since we parted, I've passed 
Some moments most wi-etched ; but, weary to-night| 
I may feel quite different in morning's clear light. 



May Uty 1866. 

TITESDAT. 

Have been very unhappy for some few days past, 
kwi not quite well either. On Sabbath mom lait^ 



STOLEN WAT ERR. 293 

I went up to cliurch. I was eai*ly, but he 

Wiii* thoro boforo 1 was, aiul givcui to mo 

Weio liiu iirst glauco and sinilo, whon ho camo tul to llBgj 

But thoro by his sido waa a woman IVo seen 

But too often already, and that I would fain 

As long an I livo bt^hold luHor again — 

Mrs. D., tlio sopnmo, I always disliked. 

We had ai)okon of hor on tho provious night, 

Whon wo mot at tho L., and he said ho had not 

Even soon hor sinoo she loft tho choir. If IM tlioughi 

That sI»o would have boon thoro, Td not gone o\w step. 

Bhe was, though, and he must noods sit back, instead 

Of his place in tho '* corner. " It nuide mt^, indeed, 

Most provoked and unliappy ; though he \n\u\ no heed 

To her, and did not stoj) to speak. But my eyes 

Witli bitter totu-s Ulled many times; so surj)rised 

An<l so disappointed was 1 1 1 had gone 

Not far from the church whon he passed me^ his arm 

In that of the bass-singer. Marked pjiii»'> lie took 

To speak as he paasoil me. J low luuulsome ho looked I 

Fai'ther down, Mrs, D., sweeping by me, joined them 

As they tvuiied down Broadway, walking next him, thougk 

then 
Ho was on tho outsiilo. That, indeed, wtis the lai»*, 
Birter droj) in my full cup of wormwood. They )>tussed 
From my sight., anil I t^itereil a car, homeward bound, 
Bad and wretched indeed. But that day has torn down 
Every barrier «/ coldness, indillerence, that 
1 had fancied wjis raised. Alas I 'twas, in fao^i 
Otdy fanc} , tuid I am as wholly his own 
TcMlay aa I ever wa« — his, liis alone t ' 



8SM JSrOL.'CN WATKtiJS. 

This morniug, fioui Colonel Allair, 1 retofivvd 
Jii»t tho nioost t pistlo ho has, \ l>olie^*t», 
Ever writkMi to nio ; and had no slight effect 
In raising my spirits, juid helping to check 
The 8iulnos8 thou wi>io;hing uie <lown. 1 know not 
Hanlly what 1 shouUl now tlo withont him; bright 
Are his notes in uiy wt>ary lifo. In all rt^si>ect8 
How unlike to tni/ oiJi^r tfohn is he, luul yet 



Jw%s l$iy 1866. 

FUIDAY. 

1 went np to ohuroh a few iSablviths ago. 
My friend did not sing, nor did Mrs. D. So 
T]iert> w^js nani^ht io disturb my devotions. Rt>lie Hrf 
1 felt, I must own ! Some vlays sin^v, I nwivetl 
A letter trom him, auil a niee one. lie writ<«, 
Tliut he onne on t'lvni Boston tlie pn^vions nights 
Had taken a oold n\ost seveiv, and was then 
Cioing home for a steaming. He told me tlmt when 
lie Siiw me up town at ehuivh wjus the last time 
That he s:vng ; he went ilown for his ear, :uid ou miiM 
Siiw me as we pai^i^evl <\iU'h tlie other ; but I 
NVjis not hn^kuvg that wuy. And did lux, by Vhe by, 
Burmij»^ how I felt, »ui 1 so told me to sot 
At rx^t all my ilv>ubts, and show v^ he wua yet 
My love and my ilarliug? While with Mrs. D., 
1 iiuagiueii he w^iii, he wjis tliinkuig of me, 



And waicbiiig to boo mo jis I bhouM piusj* by. 
Ot 1 hoio maiiy tiiuos I'vo bot'ii i\)us(.'ioii8 tbiit I 
Uayo doiio bim iudeod " gross injusiicol " 

He irrotc 
Ho ahixibl soon tiud ociMision to soo ino, bo liopod, 
That wo iniglit liavo ii confab togotbor. 1 sent 
Him a noU^, U>lluig biiu (bat on Woihiosday nm meant 
To ho absent, and asking [(ho would oonio out. 
But sbo did not go, as it rained luird about 
A.11 tbo moniing, and noitlior did bo conio. Tbat day. 
However, be wrote nie a Utter to say 
Tbat lie wanted to see nie, and tbougbt tbat bo might 
Appoint Friday, about four p.m. ; but tbat iiigbt 
1 bad an engjigemout, and to tbat eilect 
I wroti^ bini, of course ; but witb after regi-ot 
Tbat 1 bad not kept bis a})poLnt.nient. To-day 
1 fulfdled my engagement ; tlio bours passed away 
Very pletisantly, tbougb I of coui'so at tbo tinu> 
Could but tbiiik tbat I migbt be(>n witb '* Antony minc^*' 
If I bad not boon tbere. 

He's done bravely, of late, 
Not only one, but two a})j>oin(nients to make. 
I wonder if tbere'a a day passes but be 
Sends many a tender tbougbt over to me ; 
And if musings of me are botb pli'asant and sweet, 
And give to bim bappiness lasting and deep. 
1 never sliall know more tluui now, 1 suppose ; 
He is so reserved, be will ueveb disclose 
Them to me, or reveal me tbe depths v)f bis heart ; 
I only can judge by a passing renuirk, 
An occasional word. If unable to read, 
He mu»t of co\im<3 think some, oik] can he, indeed, 



S26 JSTOLEy WA1ER8. 

Help thinking of one much and often, who so 

Devotedly loves him? He fnust care, 1 know, 

A little for me and my letters y or he 

Would not cling to tliem so, and refuse utterly 

To give them up ever. I ^aid the last time 

That I s:\w him, that he\i bettor give me Iviok misfl^ 

Lest sometliing sliould hapi>en to him. He reiused 

To do ST, and tuud they were Siife. And no use 

To urge tlie thing farther. I saw it would be. 

He don't like to own how mt/oA he cares for me. 

" Oh cvHild my fond ideas ivality prove, 

And one blissful moment give me all liis love, 

I would for that moment my life fivt^y give, 

\jid when he ce^ised to love, 1 no longer would Ut*.' 



June 6th, 1866. 

WEDNESDAY. 

I hanily know when I so happy have l>een. 
And so fully ixwlbed it, as within 
The brief boui-s of this swift-flitting day. 

You must know 
My dear Journal, that some live or six wet>ks ago. 
My friend s^x^ke of a series of ** Crinhaju's wise men," 
Wluch is now being publishevi ; ajid told me that when 
His picture was out — which it would be then so<m — 
He wouUl send it to me. And so, whou this noon 
The carrier V>nn)ght me a jvn>er, addresseii 
In the well-known handwriting of him L love Vwf(| 



8T0i.Bi^ WATERS. 827 

t 8upi)osed it was that ; neitlior was I, indetnl, 

Disappointed ; but, opoiiiiig it with all speed, 

E found an engraving so perfect, it seemed 

Almost as if he was before mo. Ma deemed 

It not at all like him ; but she liaa not seen 

Him in two years or over, juid doubtless forgot 

How he looked. And that lie too has changed, It cannot 

Be denied. I have marked it in him, and it is 

More evident still in his picture. There is 

On liis face an expression entirely unlike 

What it wore but three short years ago ; then Hwas bright 

Smiling, happy, and cai'eless ; but now there are linet, 

And he looks sjid and anxious. I caimot divine 

The cause — perhaps business cares, illness, a mind 

Or a heart that is troubled. Whatever it be, 

He's the dearest of all earthly objects to me. 

" I ne'er wake at morn, but his name ever bounds 

To my heart, the first hope of the day. Ne'er kneel dowa 

At evening, but it in my prayers, whether in 

Thought or speech, mmgles too. If in this I have sinnedi 

Grod forgive me I " for I have my punishment had. 

In the " Consciousness of degradation^ the sad 

Despair which a woman overwhelms, when she dares 

Unwooed, unrequited to love ! " Yet how fair 

And precious to me is my love ! All the day 

I have trembled with my intense happiness. Yea, 

My thoughts constantly turned to the fact that at last 

I have his tlear }>icture ; at each thought there |>asaed 

llirough my pulses a thrl'l of exquisite delight. 

Notwithst^iuding this, I'm feeling sjid, though, to-nigh% 

To think this poor semblance of him, of the dear, 

LiTing, loving original's all that I e'er 



998 UTOLBN ^yATEm, 

Cui hajie for possession of 1 Naught but a bib 

Of flimsy, insensible paper. Tliose lips 

Can yield no response to my tender caress ; 

Those eyes cannot change from their sad eainestneMi 

Or give me e'en one glance of love. And with this 

I must be content ! Oh, my God ! but it is 

Bitter, hitter ^ this burden I ever must bear, 

Of a hopeless and wasted affection. Oh, there 

Ajre times when it seems it must kill me, this weight 

At my heart which I'm forced constant effort to make 

To keep back, and crush down, lest some cold, careless eyt 

Should sometime read the tale I so zealously try 

To conceal. I'm yet young ; must I go all through life 

With the curse of unsatisfied longings at strife 

In my heart, blighted hoi)es, and affection unsought, 

Unreturned ? O ! God knows that against it I've fought 

And struggled in vain ! My love, gliding along 

So smoothly, with naught to disturb the deep, strong 

Serenity of his grand nature, I'm sure 

Can't imagine what J^ daily have to endure. 

His picture is lying before me ! Each fine 
Well-cut feature's indelibly stamped on my mind, 
And impressed on my heart in most deep burning lines. 
The smooth brow, and the eyes, so sweet, tender, and kind, 
The full lips whose soft touch I can never forget ; 
E'en the poise of the head, the hair's careless and yet 
Smooth adjustment ; the cut of the beard and mostaohc 
So familiar — and all that makes up the fine cast 
Of form and Of feature — are painted down deep 
In my heart's fairest chamber, in colors soft, sweety 



STOLKJ^ WATERS. 5W9 

And ot<»niaI. Yet ^t^is good to have even this 
PictunHl soiubUmce of him ; tuui I own, to me 'tis 
liultvd jvritvloss. Whilt^ lookiiii* at it, I can iioVr 
Forgot that thoso eyos hiivtt looktul lovo ; that tho»e leu 
Lij)S httve, with a touch that no others caii eVr 
Restnublc, mot uiiue iii Ion c's j)uit>, swcot caress ; 
'Hiat my check has against that smooth lort>ht>ad bt>on pressed. 
And my ht^d pillowed ou that broad, true, tender brtxiiat 

But midnight approaches I My book I must close 
On the nH\>ril of this day, and seek my repi>se, 
With thanks t*.) tlie ilostiny which has, at Unigth, 
The fultihnent of ont> of my strong desires sent. 



Aug-ujft Ut^ 1866. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Two months, very nearly, since I've >\Titten here ! 
But though I've l^een silent, it's not, Journal dear, 
Been bei'ause T*ve had nothing worth writing. Inst^^ad, 
The past weeks have been ones of strong and varitni 
Kmotions. 

I've heard peopU> Siiy ihvy ct>idd not 
Keep a jovirnal, bwause they wouhl never, tJiey thought. 
Have aught worth tlie writing ; tlieir lives were »o iame 
And quite uneventf\d. I can't say the same I 
If I shouUl write all the events strongly marked 
Which occur in my life, in fact even a part, 
^Twould till volumes. Tm conscious my journal is quits 
Incomplete ; is recording alone, of my life, 



230 8I0ZSN WAFEBS. 

That part i^hich is inner and hidden — ^that 

But myself ever sees ; that it, too, has become 

An escape- valve for long-pent emotion alone. 

Were people to read it, to me quite unknown, 

I fear they would think me a person of one 

Idea — despondent and gloomy. But though 

I have lost the extravagant spirits, whose flow 

A.t times was so brilliant, but three years ago, 

Yet I often am cheerful, and lively, e'en now 

Though not very gay ever, I will allow. 

But I'm sure, did they know how completely I hid© 

The grief which sometimes bursts all barriers, they might 

Their opinion of me somewhat change. 

Zov«f whick ia 
To some but a sentiment, mere transient bliss, 
Tamely felt, tamely lost, or at pleasure transferred, 
To T/M is a life's one " grand passion " — oft heard 
And read of, but seldom, I think, known or seen. 
But though it pervades with its bitter-sweet sheen 
Every fibre and pulse of my heart, yet it there 
Abides, and is not in my face written, where 
It by each passer-by may be read ; and although 
Within all my thoughts it may be, it has no 
Part or place e'er in my conversation. 

Within 
The interim since my last writing, I've been 
So happy as from my love one or two notes 
To receive, and in one of the latest he wrote 
Mine had just come to hand ; he expected to get 
A ** grand scolding " from me, for his recent n^ecA 
In writing ; he knew he was negligent in 
All hia correspondence ; but that he had been 



STOLEN WATBBB, %^ 

Quite unwell, and away a great deal. At he end 
He writes that he hopes we shall meet soon, and thfln 
Have a long chat together. And Z hoped so, too I 
Then adds — " Don't feel hard toward me, if I do 
Not write you so often, or much as you like \ '* 
He need fear no " scolding " from me, I replied. 
I gave him my last more than one year ago, 

I VM8 surprised, somewhat, a month since, or so. 
At receiving a letter from one with whom I 
Once flirted a little, and who, by the by. 
At the time — about four years ago — sent to me 
Some notes that were — welll very wa/rm, certainly! 
I then liked him much ; but had not seen or heard 
From him, until then, since we parted, one word. 
The acquaintance was closed amicably at the time, 
By mutual consent. I was quite pleased to find 
I was not forgotten ; glad also to hear 
From him once again after so many years. 
The old correspondence he wished to renew ; 
To this I objected, acceding unto 
His desire the acquaintance might still continue. 
Between us a few letters passed, and he came 
To see me, of course. And he seemed just the same 
As in the old time. Indeed ! J could not see 
As he'd changed in the least ; but he told me that h© 
Never saw such a change as there had been in me. 
And my letters, as well — that, in fact, 'twas more ma^lsid 
In those than it was in myself. Not but what 
rhey were fine, and as finished as ever, he thought^ 
But seemed so much colder, more formsJ, «nd etfl 



^*J 



232 STOLEN WATSBA 

So %'ivacioiis aud gay. I asked did he think so. 

And he said, " 1 think nothing about it. I knauf ! * 

How sliocked I one evening felt at the receipt 

Of one of his notes. " My own dear Bitter-Sweet !* 

Was how it commenced ; and I cannot describe 

The feeling which passed o\>r me, as I descried 

Those words at the head of a letter from him. 

The note from my hand dropped, as if it had been 

A live coal of fire. When I saw him I asked 

How he came to write that ; and he stud in times pMt 

I signed one of mine thus (but that was before 

The first to my love), and he thought to once more 

Awake old emotions by using it now. 

I replied somewhat bitterly, I must allow, 

That it called up emotions entirely unlike 

What he\i anticipated. And he did not write 

Another addressed in that way. I had liked 

Him always, as I stiid before ; and awhile — 

Shall I own it ? — attempted myself to beguile 

With dreams of the possible chance of my heart 

Being " caught in rebound," and transferring a pari 

Of my wasted aflections to him. He came, too, 

Just at the right time ; when I was, it is true, 

With the old love disgusted and wei;*y, its place 

Supplying, indeed, better, for a brief space. 

Than I had deemed possible. But the dream soon 

Was dispelled ; for the old intimacy resumed 

Khowed ine, also, that I had changed ; how much ls# 

To my love was inferior, proving to me 

How impossible 'twas he should e'er satisfy 

Hie ontvings of he«rt, or of mind, or sopplj 



srOLSy WAVERS. 838 

Hi© place bv my ilarliiig left vacan:, and brought 

Me Kick io * he old sweot allegianw. I thought 

That mere sUuiigt>rs 'twas best we should ho, as betbr«| 

Ajid took moiisures acconiingly. Yet, I was more 

Disiappoiuted thuii I can express, to again 

Find mv hopes for a new stute of things blighted. Thea 

VVith that came despondency, even moi*e deep 

Than usual. Yesteniay, wretched indeed 

Was I ; and I felt like exchuiing myself 

From society wholly, and bivaking, tiii well, 

All my tN.^ri-esjx>ndence — infutuit> vv-itMu 

Myself hve entirely ; tonlay to begin 

The new life. But I slept o'er it, jmd, as the mom 

In roseate splendor from darkness is bom, 

So to yestenlay^s night so profoimd, gloom so dt>ep, 

Succeeds to-day *s glorious sunshine. 

To ktvp 
This P.M. witli my love, an appointment^ went in. 
I was lat<\ altho' he was still later. I'd been 
Thert> some time, and was just about leaving, when b» 
At length came in. His partner was out, he told me, 
And he waited for him *till sbc nearly, and then 
Left, at once. We stayeil theiv for awhile, and then wen' 
For a walk. By the way, he to-day spoke again 
About seeing me in the car that day when 
1 WAS coming fivm church, when he &\ng the last tip t ; 
And said his surprise was not mucJi less th:\n mine 
At Mi-s. D. singing that morning. He bade 
Me fai-ewell somewhat hastily, as his car had 
Alrtvuly pjisstnl hy ; Ixnuling low o'er my hand, 
With a gi'ice all his oNvn, tmd a tenderness grand 



834 STOLEN WATBB& 

And simple as vrell, he pressed it in both 

Of his, with a lingering warmth, as if loath 

To release it, then said he'd soon see me again. 

And was gone. But there was such a difference wfaoi 

He was with me to-da}', in his manner, &om what 

There was ever before — an air which I cannot 

Describe, but that I perceived plainly. A &ee 

Familiar regard in his bearing to me, 

Elntirely unusual ; and never did I, 

His friendship appreciate more. He's seen my 

Worst qualities, surely, and yet is " still true," 

Notwithstanding, too, all I have done or can do. 



August nth, 1866. 

PBIDAY. 

I did not, I think, say, w^hen writing here last, 
There'd a much longer season than usual elapsed 
Since from Colonel Allair I'd a letter received. 
But though thinking it strange, his not writing, belie re 
There was a good reason, and that his delay 
Was compulsory. Two weeks ago yesterday, 
The wished-for epistle arrived. I was much 
Pleased, indeed, upon opening it, to find such 
A long letter, and thought that its kindly contents 
Its late coming would amply compensate. Intent 
On this thought, I glanced first at the close, then ag»ia 
To the head, and, all being «i3 usual, I then 



BTOLBN WATERS. 2S5 

Pre(>ared with mucli pleasure to read it ; but down 

The first page I had not far perused, ere I found 

There waa a great change. It was e\en more fond 

Than his letters in general, yet he goes on 

To say — while expressing unbounded regret 

That it should bo so, that he thinks 'twould be best 

To close our correspondence — the reason expressed 

Being his strong desire for a sweet retrospect. 

And his fetus, it continued, between us there might 

Come something to render the mem'ry less bright 

And pleasing than now. I might think this to be 

Inconsistent, perhaps, with what hitherto he 

Had written ; he'd then thought to leave it to fate, 

Rut now feared to do so ; he knew it would take 

From his life its sweet charm — would be piu'ting, in truth, 

With a piece of his heart. His pen almost refused 

To transcribe the words — much like that in effect. 

Hoped that some time it might be renewed upon yet 

More agreeable terms ; should he e'er visit me, 

He trusted a most welcome guest he should be. 

But if, before then, the time should be so long, 

His desire to hear from me sufficiently strong 

To his silence o'ercome, begged permission to write, 

Grtmting me, too, the same ; said he hoped that he migh^ 

Be allowed to retain still my letters, as they 

Were dear unto him ; I might do the same way 

With his, or aught else that I liked. 

I read on 
To the end of the fond, cruel letter, though long 
Before I had finished tears blinded my eyes ; 
And I'd reached my room, scarcely, ere sobs har4 and itrj 



236 8TCLEN WATERS. 

In volumes broke forth ; neither could I contra! 
Myself in the leasi. 'Twas so sudden, the whole 
So quite unexpected ! T ne'er was so grieved 
In my life I So entirely I'd trusted, believed 
In his truth, never doubting him once. I felt there 
Was for me nothing but disappointment, despair I 

Loving with supreme ardor all those whom 1 caiit 
In the least for, I'm constantly wounded. Oh I would 
That I were less extreme ; that, like others, I oould 
Sometimes keep a medium course. I expect 
Never happiness lastiug ; in every respect 
My organization's too sensitive, quite. 
I feel everything too acutely — delight 
And sorrow as well. I am one of those who 
Desire, above all things, affection ; and, too, 
Manifested, not unexpressed love — to whom ihskt 
Is the only thing worth bearing life for, in fact, 
And yet are too proud e'er to make manifest 
Their desire for the love which they wish to possess; 
Too reticent any endeavor to make 
To win the affection they constantly crave, 
By showing to others the same. Bi>+- yet J 
Cannot endure always in silence ; and try 
As I may to keep down all emotion, I must 
Give way to grief sometimes. And having so mndi 
Disappointment of late, which I'd swallowed and kept 
Out of sight, this last hard, unexpected blow swept 
Aside every atom of my self-control. 
And in my despaii', and abandon, the whole 
I would have avowed — misplaced love, woimded pride. 
Blighted friendship, and all, howe'er humbling it might 



STOLEN WATEItS. 287 

Be to me. But with my self-command once regsdiie«2» 
Grief exhausted, accustomed reserve again came, 
And I crushed it all down in my heart, buried deep 
From all human sight, and of sympathy's sweet 
Consolation deprived. But this kept me prostrate 
The whole day, and I did not go down until late ; 
And with eyes then so swollen I scarcely could see, 
Throbbing temples, and sad, aching heart. Up to me 
Ma and Fannie had both been, and anxious to know 
The cause of my grief, but I begged them to go 
Ajad leave me alone. And so, when I that eve 
Went down, I took with me the letter to leave 
With them if they wished. With true delicacy, 
Neither mentioned the subject. 

The colonel wished mc 
To write in reply, and I did so. To-day 
I an anBwer received, and it was, I must say, 
A fine letter indeed ; and he said he had thought 
Many times that our long correspondence could naught 
But a bore be to me. In its closing, the loss 
Would be wholly on his side, and so that it was 
On my ^account, merely, he wrote as he did. 
At last owning, what I had half suspected. 
The cause was my writing about the renewed 
Intercourse with my old friend (I spoke of to you, 
In my last record here, my dear J oumal). Of that 
I wrote him, as I anything else do, in fact, 
Which interests me, never di-eaming that it 
Would have such effect upon him, I admit. 
He begged me to answer, and said he should 
Again in the interim. So we, to-night, 
At« iust as good friends as before. 



238 STOLEN WATERS. 

I'm perplexed 
To disooTer what fate has in store for me next. 



Octohm' My 1866. 

YTEDNESDAY. 

I have from my love received two or three note% 
In the interval which has occurred since I wrote. 
And one which he sent me I did not receive, 
Much to my regret. He addressed, I believe, 
To the office, and so it was lost. But how glad 
I was, when to-day I another one had. 
And such as he never has sent me before. 
My love and forbearance the last year or more 
Have not been in vain; and he loves me to-day, 
And trusts, and respects me much more, I dare say, 
Than if anger and sarcasm I'd not repressed. 
Conmienced as in general : " My dear B. S." 
And said that upon the receipt of my Ust 
He could not but blame himself that there had pasMll 
Such an interval since he had written to me ; 
But had been away most of the time. And so he 
Feels, it seems, his shortcomings, ;now I utter no 
Reproaches; but when I found fault with him so, 
He'd make no acknowledgments. I'm indeed glad. 
For vaj sake, as well as his, too, that I had 
Resolved to write no more cross letters, and my 
Resolution have kept. Farther on he writes — 

Can but say that it is real pleasure to read 
Vour letters : they're so entertaining, indeed^ 



STOLEN WATERS, 2W 

80 loviikg, and seem to come right &om the heiurt.** 

How delighted I was at this earnest remark ! 

I have many times felt, that, instead of to him 

Giving pleasure, they must very often have been 

A source of annoyance ; and though they could b^— 

Such feelings — but bitterly humbling to me, 

I still sent them on, with faint hopes that I might 

In answer a few lines receive, did he write, 

Indeed, never so coldly and formal. But now 

I have my reward ; for my darling avows 

rhey do give him pleasure, and I've learned at lengdi 

That he never says what is not fully meant ; 

The confession, beside, half unwillingly seems 

To have come, and which double force gives it. I deem 

That our correspondence, at last, has become 

On a basis established more pleasant and firm 

Than it has been of late. In my last, I a kiss 

Sent to him and to " Bertie " (the baby, that is). 

Telling him to be sure and deliver it. So 

He writes me in answer : 

" The kiss, which yon know 
You sent in your letter a few days ago, 
Was duly delivered to Bertie ; but, bless 
His innocent soul, from whence came the caress 
He indeed little knew." 

Since this note I received, 
How mai^y times IVe fancied him, just at eve, 
After his return home, clasping close in his arms 
The beautiful child, pressing on his soft, warm, 
8aby lips, a fond kiss from lips none the less sweet, 
Witb thoughts of thfj love for him, boundless and deep^ 



940 8T0LKN WATERS. 

Wliioh hat] smit tlie oiireHS to tlio uuooiiHoiouB boy** 

Tlu^ lovo for liiin, which wouhl rojoico in liia joy, 

Ami gri( vt^ at his sorrow, uiid whioli rtMulors dear 

AU t.h« ohjoots of liin «h>o|) HUootion, \Vli«n hero, 

A fow (luys nj;o, liort^tto asked luo if 1 

Hat! iunt»r (h»sir(»(l (hat (ho woman woiiM die, 

Wlio standrt hotwoon mo and (hi^ man that 1 love, 

Wni tliougli h)vini» him with a passion above 

Antl ln>yoiul tistimation, 1 thank (u>d Tvo Inwn 

From thnt ttunptut it)n sjmrod ; that, it has not within 

My mind ft)r a momont oVn once had a jdaoo. 

1 h)ve him too woll to doaii*o to otfaoo 

From liis hivirt or his homo what sho is, or ha<l oii^t 

Unto liim and his children to bo. 1 do not 

Lik(^ ti) soo thorn toi((^thor, or think, 1 must own, 

l)f thom in tho oh>so intimacy i>f honu> — 

Tht^ rohition t^xistinu; bt^twciMi thorn. But tliOBO 

Thoughtj^ bnt' mako \\\o nnliappy, and never dispofla 

Mo to Ch>1 hard or bit.tor to hor or to him. 

Of coiTst^ vtu-y ditfortMit, thougl», it might been, 

If ho had not marriod until 1 Iiad seen 

And U)vt>il him and hanUn- io boar, too, T ween I 

\\\\i I nt>w can but feci that no consuro is due 

Anywhcix^ ; but tho crut>l stri>ko was, it is true, 

Unavoidabh^, OU>sinsjj, ho savs - 

'* l>id you know 
That 1 sang at tlio o\d church a fow wt>oks ago. 
For u sin;^h> thiy merely ? IM sent you the won! 
Had it \\o[ l>(>(«n toi> late to lio so, when I heard 
I "WHH want<>ii io sing. It did seem like old times t " 
And m> /* I,* thoughts Homt^timra turn to sweet " Auld Ung 



UTOLKN WATETiK 941 

How co/n I Iu^l)> Miinkin<; Ik^ dooH caro for mel 

That I a/M (I(>!ir (,0 him, in houu) litUo ihijj;nwl 

Ilia iiianiuu- was ulwnys most kmdrr niul kind. 

And porhapH it luay ho a fault wholly of miiio, 

That so brit^f, cold, nvscM-vnl, his notos jwcr liavo fxHUij 

Pvo hoon cross iiixd umc'iisonnhio oft(Mi with him, 

And, dear as ho is, from him / could not l>*Mir 

Wluit Iio'h taken from uw. Ihit in uttor despair, 

80 wretched, and chiidni^ so undm- my honds, 

I Bont Icttors Harcastic and hitter, when fond 

And gentle ones would liavo ho(ni bettor. But jMwt 

Art) thoHO days, fonwc^r, 1 truHt. 

In tho lu8t 
Of the colonors nice letters, in ont^ place ho wiyH — 
** What a blessed thing 'tis a true fritnid to possess I 
1 <lo not know what without you I should do; 
I think sometimt^s my * guartlian angol ' are you, 
If such things can bo ; ant I 1 know that I owe 
To your iufluonco all that I aui." 

And if BO, 
If I somo slight bouolit may to him bo, 
I shall not have lived vainly. My life seoms to mm 
Such a failure, ho wiisted ami wt^ury, in it 
Ro much disuppointniont and grief, i admit 
1 am thankful if there's oven one that can say 
Tlioy are bettor for my having lived. 

Weill to^y 
Our pastor called here and I gave my consent, 
Tliongh not willingly, very, to make an attempt 
At teaching a Sabbath-school class. 1 may like 
When accustomed to it, but was fearful I might 
It 



242 STOLEN WATERS. 

Find it irksome to feel tliat I always must go-— 

As I certainlj should— if I wished to or no ; 

Nor do I feel competent either ; and so 

I fain would refused ; but he would take from m% 

Nothing but a consent. I do like to be free I 

Don't like to feel ever the meaning of that 

One little word " must.''^ I suppose that, in fact, 

Is why I have fretted so under the chains 

I have worn for three years — years so brimful of change 

" From even love's rosy bonds I would be free I " 

And yet it a glorious thing seems to me, 

To feel one has Such capabilities in 

One's nature for loving ; though it may have been 

Undesired, unrewarded. And is not that, still, 

Love the noblest of all ? Nearly every heart will 

Respond to another's deep passion, but few 

Will dare to love where there is no hope, and, too, 

Tiove on whate'er come. Such affection is true I 



October 2ith, 1866. 

WEDNESDAY. 

Was in town some days since, and called twice al 
store. 
BMt he was not in. For the past week or more, 
I have many times felt that I must, must see him, 
And for one "bnd caress I have really been 
Almost longing ; have no hopes of having it, diongh. 
As we ne'er meet alone. I try not to feel so, 



\ 



STOLEN WATERS, 24.1 

To think of it ev m ; but out of my mind 

I can't always drive it. My heart is, at times, 

So hungry for some of love's sweets ; and I get 

Not much but its bitterness, pain, and regret. 

I oft think of the time when I used to see him 

Every Sabbath, receive in the brief interim 

An occasional visit from him, which gave me 

Such unalloyed pleasure. I wonder if he 

" Would care if his breast was my shelter as then, 

And if he were here, would he kiss me again I " 

Well, my dear sister Fannie, who came home with me 
From Boston last spring, will return soon, and she 
Insists upon taking me with her. But I 
Am not wishing to go, as pa — who, by the by. 
Returned some months since — seems determined to moT« 
Out of town in the spring, so I fear this will prove 
Our last winter in B. ; but much as I dislike 
To go, I can't seem to avoid it. Fan quite 
Overrules each objection I offer, and so 
I've at length with reluctance consented to go. 
I suppose 'tis one more phase of destiny ; seems 
To me nothing less. I, of course, cannot dream 
What might occur should I not go. I have done 
With struggling 'gainst fate ; and that 'tis but a tun 
Of her wheel which to Boston this winter sends me, 
I indeed can but think. I've no wish there to be. 
Had no hand in the matter, and bound so I am 
By a tissue of circumstances, that I can 
Do nothing tut go. Of it Colonel A Hair 
En his last writes, ^hat I may be going to thei« 



244 STOLEN WATERS. 

Meet my " dostiiiy." Truly ! I mayy or my d^ath^ 
There is but One knows. So I've only to let 
Events take their course and submit with what grsM 
I can, to whatever may come, tuid erase 
From my heart every murmur, as far aa I may. 
But yet, when I feel as I have done to-day, 
It seems as if Z ccndd not go. I would like, 
Above all things, one day's perfect quiet, and quite 
Out the question in Fannie's home that is. 

A note 
To my frleml, telling him I was going, I wrote 
Some days since ; and I made an appointment, also^ 
For the eve of to-morrow ; have yet received no 
Reply as I hoped. In the morning may, though. 



Kovenib&r ithy 1866. 

SUNDAY. 

Twould a volume require to write down here to-n]|^ 
What I wish to. My time, though, is limited quite, 
And I must condense in a somewhat small space. 
The record of what the past three or four days 
Has occurred. The day after I wrote last, from him 
Ko letter receiving, I did not go in. 
But Fannie deciding to go home somewhat 
In advance of our former expectancy, thought 
I would write him once more — which I did, saying 
Tuesday eve was the last I could meet him. In £»ot| 



STOLEN WATERS. 241 

I wrote rather coolly, and felt somewhat ye<xed 

That he had not answered my last. On the next 

Day but one I received his reply, which was quite 

Satisfactory, and, just as much true delight 

Afforded to me as the last one he sent. 

My other he said was received, and he meant 

To have written the following day ; but he went 

That eve to the theatre, and, coming home. 

Took cold ; had been sick ever since. I might knomt 

There was cause for delay. I distrust him each time 

That he disappoints me, and I yet always find 

That he is not in fault. I shall learn, by and by, 

To trust him, I hope — learn his tiij^th to descry. 

He wrote ho regretted extremely that I 

Should have been disappointed on Thursday, but still, 

It could not be helped, and then adds that he will 

Be there, if he's living and well, Tuesday eve. 

Should expect me to write to him, after I leave, 

He says near the close. His letter was long, 

For his; truly kind, and in fact almost fond. 

And gave me a feeling oi perfect content I 

An unusual delight, and not even yet spent. 

On Tuesday it rained, so I did not go in. 
I knew not but that the appointment by him 
Would be kept. I that day was not well enough, thougk* 
To have gone, had the weather been pleasant. And ao 
I wrote him I should not leave town 'till this week. 
And Thursday, about six p.m., I would meet 
My friend at the L. I intended, that day, 
To leave home in season to stop on the way 



246 STOLEN WATBR& 

At bis place ; biit being delayed, I did not 

Reach the L. until two minutes past six o'clock ; 

Ajid five minutes later my love was with me. 

i was going uj) town for the night, and so we 

Did not stay there. A carriage was waiting, which he 

Then placed me within. 'Twas a beautiful night. 

We drove part the distance, and then thought it might 

Be pleasanter still to be walking — so then 

At once put our thought into practice ; and when 

From the carriage he lifted me, close in his arms 

For a moment he held me, and then pressed a warm 

But somewhat hasty kiss on my cheek — the first one 

I have had from his lips for three years. We walked on, 

Going out of our way a short distance to pass 

The " old church," so endeared to us both ; thinking, aa 

We in silence letxned o'er the low paling of iron 

Enclosing the well-laid out grounds, of the time 

When " Love's first dream " began. And when tuminf 

away, 
He said 'twas the nicest church, he could but say, 
That he ever was in ; and 'twas so cosey, too. 
In the choir. I said, " Yes ; it was pleasant when yon 
Used to sit in the * comer,' but wag not so nice 
When you next Mrs. D. tock your seat! " 

He replies : 
** Oh, but I in the * cornet ' almost always sat I " 
U^ the avenue walking, I said to him, that 
If he wished on my ring it should not be removed 
While I remained absent. " What I over your gloTe ? " 
He inquired. But I had none on that hand — the onA 
He waa holding — so said he would take off hia own. 



STOLEN WATEBS. 247 

And whili Irawiug it off, he bet^;veen his deav lips 

Placed my ;ing, and then sli[)ping it on, with a kiss 

Bealed his fishes for nie ; and the rest of the time 

tn his warui, ungloved hand with fond clasp he held miiiA 

To hear Madame llistori was going that eve, 

And said it was difhcult for uim to leave 

That night, as some frionds on from Boston were in 

At the store when he left, and would not excuse hinii 

But he told them he must go, agreed to meet them 

Between seven and eight at the theatre, then 

Left in haste. And lie said ho came up to the L. 

When we made the appointment for Tuesday, as well. 

And thought, tliough it did rain, that I would be in 

As I left town so soon ; and that I'd accused him 

So often of breaking engagements, he meant 

To keep tliat one, if through fire and water he went. 

And he did go througli water indeed, for it poured. 

Said he sang the last Sabbath in church, but the won! 

Again did not get until too late to scmd 

Out to me, but should sing the next Sunday again, 

(That's to-day), and of course I consented to go. 

'Twas not at our church that he sang, he said, though, 

But at an Episcopal on the same street. 

Many times he regi-etted that his " Bitter-Sweet " 

Was not there when he sang at the old church. 

Whenwi 
Reached Annie's — whore I was to stop — he wished me 
To walk on a short distance. Of course I was glad 
To comply, although then barely time he would had 
To keep his engagement with promptness. But that 
Was nothing to mo, if he felt satisfied. 
We were on the same street where I used to r«ald«^ 



848 STOLEN WATEB8. 

And stooil on a comer quite near luy old home 

For some little time ; ami it taa<f sweet, I own, 

To stand \Htli my hand clasped in his, and the toaai 

Of his exquisite voice falling soft, on my ear. 

Sweet the stolen embrace when no person was near, 

The j>etting so longeil for, the perfect cont<>nt 

Wliieh his mere pi\^sence giive me, the pure joy that semi 

Every thought but of happiness out of my heart, 

Though I knew time was living, tuul soon we must part. 

lie was all the eve so allectionat*^, kind ; 

He called me '* dear " once, and by mmie many times. 

Though never addressing me by it before, 

It could not have come from his lips now with more 

b^e and naturjil readiness, if it had been 

Kor long, a familial* ** household wortl " with him. 

Very pivtty he speaks it, moit> as a ctiress 

Thau luiything else, and it sounds, 1 confess, 

Very sweet from his lips. 

He has never appeared 
So tender and loving, tuid never so clear 
And mtuiifest was hu attachment. Although 
Always kind, he was then more than usually so. 
More reason to think 1 am tlear to him, he 
Never giive me. Indeed ! 1 am imrf he loves meu 
At Iciu^t next to her, who in his heart claims 
The tii-st place. And am I contented to reign 
As second witliin a ilivided heart? One 
Who has often declared she would have all, or none, 
Is witki thu satJAtied t Yes 1 far better a part, 
A moiety of hi*, than another's whole heart! 

He 8j>oke miuiy times oi my writing to him. 
** YouTl write me wheu Boston you shall arrive in," 



STOLBir WATBh^S. 249 

Was the laut thing lio said. It was past eight o'clock 
When iu]faiii we l)eforo my iVioiul's resitlenoe stopped. 
Then tiiking inj liaiids, botli of thoni, in hia own, 
Left a ki»s ot farewell on my lips luui w»ia gone. 
I fancy hia friends tirotl of waiting, ere he 
The theatre rtmchetl. 

Well I tl\e evening, to me. 
Was perfect I My love every want satistiea ; 
For the void in my heart sweet content he snpplies, 
Until it overflows with a love so entire, 
So sacred, imd pure, passion can but expire, 
So sweet 1 ignore all the pain gone Ix^fore. 
Wliile I drank in the joy which his presence affoixls, 
What wonder I should for a moment forget 
That 1 " stoUn loatcrs " was (piatlhig ! And yet. 
Is a love pure as mine such a deep, deadly sin. 
And a crime each impassioncul exi)ression ? There's bee* 
Very much to regret, and repent of — lose sight 
Of the wrong, or excuse it, T do not — it might, 
However, bo worife ; and to One, who, if just, 
Is loving and pitiful also, I'll trust 
The sin and its [>unishment, knowing that He 
Looks alone on tlie heart, each temptation ctm see, 
Whether conquered or yie ded to. Once having worn 
Our humanity, been by furce tempt jitiona torn, 
He knows how to succor, to pity, forgive ; 
To His love and compassion the issue 1 leave. 

This morning was fair, so of course went up town 
To cliurcii, as I promised. Was early, and found 
He liad not yet arrived ; but the sexton gave me. 
As re(][ueste(l, a seat near the choir ; and when h« 
11* 



250 STOLEy [rATERA 

Soon after CAiiie in, his face plainly betrayed 

His i;leasuiv at seeing me. He sang to-day, 

Divinely, as ever! liis voice seemed in truth 

Ihe impressive Episcopal service to suit, 

And lost none of its richness and beauty, when iu 

The elabonite " Te Deum" heard. I had been 

So proud of hiiu, had we but met ere it came 

To be sin he should love me — had J borne his nai i^ 

When service wiis over, I had not gone far 

Ere he joined me. Together we waited for cai-s. 

He said the last Sabbath "• INly Lady " was down, 

But to-day it was too late to come, when she found 

He intended to sing — I presume iio design 

Thei-e was iu his fiiiliiig to tell her in time (?). 

I spoke of his being so late Thursday night, 

Ere he kept his engjigement ; he Siiid yes, 'twas qui' \ 

Ten o'clock ere he entered the theati*e. When 

He tirst left the car, about nine, he missed then, 

For the first time, a valuable diamond ring. 

He thought for a moment, then recollecting 

That he drew oiV his glove where we stood a long ti< i 

Convei*sing, he took a car back ; failed to find 

What he sought, so he borrowed a lantern near by- • 

Turned away unsuccessful again, when his eye 

Was caught by the glitter. Indeed! he, 1 think, 

Was most fortunate. It was a l>eautiful ring, 

One his wife ordinarily w eai-s. 

So, I ween, ^ 
For the last time for many long months, I have seea 
My love, and my dciuest ! 1 gOy though, a-way, 
Feeling sure of his truth and afi'ecuon. All dnj 



igTOhlSN WATBUR 261 

I Lave thought of a poem, expressing indeed 

With perfectness my feelings to him. Thus its reads i 

" What ai*e my thoughts of thee ? 
Ah, most serene and calm I Amid the liin, 
The stir, and tumult of the busy crowd, 
Like birds fi*om far, they softly flutter in, 
And breathe to mo thy name, but not aloud. 
I liear some voice with music like thy tone, 
And start to know that I iim not alone — 
I look amid them all, if I may trace 
Thy glance, thy smile, thy form's fiuniliar grao»> • 
And by the sudden flutter of my heart, 
I know, my love, we are not fir apart. 

" What are my thoughts of thee ? 
All pure and fair, yet passionately sweet. 
Moonlight and starlight whisper still of thee. 
I breathe thy name, and o'er and o'er repeat 
The words thou said'st beneath the whispering tree. 
Again 'neath Winter's moonlight skies we stand, 
I feel in mine the pressure of thy hand — 
And words that touched my soul with sudden thrill 
Are murmured o'er by lingering memories still. 
And though our paths must part, 'tis sweet to know 
Blest thoughts of thee are mine where'er I go — 
Sweeter to know that with no vain regret. 
We shall recall the hour when first we met." 

It does seem so strange that we, after three yeam 
Of misunderstandings, heart-burnings, and tears, 
Bliould stand on the footing we now do ; and that 
Onr long correspondence, which has been in fkol 



352 8T01SN WAVERS. 

Irregular, sparriag, unpleasant — at length. 
All jarrings at end — we, by mutual consent, 
With mutual pleasure, propose to renew, 
On a basis of confidence, knowledge, and fcma 
Respect and affection, that neither could know 
At its fatal beginning, just three years ago. 
I have much injustice done him in the past, 
But I'm glad I can truthfully say, that at last 
My confidence in him is perfect, entire ! 

1 find, looking back for a year, I aspired 
Ere to-night to be able the end to write here 
Of this unhappy love. But this record, I fear, 
Looks not much like an overcome passion. 

We leave 
On the night train for Boston, on next Wednesday evtv 
And so to my home I once more bid adieu, 
To my darling, and also, my Journal, to you. 



March 23d, 1867. 



SATURDAY. 



Once more I'm in Brooklyn 1 How happy I ai^ 
That, after a long, five months' abseace, I can 
Sit here in my own, cosey, dearly-loved room, 
My old confidential chats here to resume 
With my Journal ; once more on its pages to trace 
The sweet words " at home ! " There indeed is m. fiaot 



STOLEN WATERS. SSS 

So dear to mj heart I I from Boston arrived 
About two A.M. yesterday. 

WeU! my life, 
Binoe I left home last fall, has as usual not been 
Uneventfiil ; but on the contrary, within 
A few months a great deal has been crowded. Bui H 
Is so far in the past, I have now, I admit, 
No time, nor, in fact, inclination to write 
It in detail, and merely will give here to-night 
A simimary brief of a part. 

When I had 
Been in B. a few days only, I was attacked 
With severe fever symj)tom.s, so suddenly that 
'Twas with great dilBculty that they were controlled| 
And for a few days was quite ill. On the whole, 
It was almost a wonder that I had escaped 
A long run of fever. 

I >vrote the same day 
I arrived, to my frieiul ; disappointed was I, 
And greatly, that to it I had no reply. 
I waited some two weeks, and then wrote agaia. 
Still no answer ! A letter to Annie I then 
Dispatched, and enclosed one to him, the desire 
Expressing that sheVl take it in and inquire 
For him — thus the state of his health ascertain, 
And at once let me know the result. This was vain 
(I had wi'itt^n to her two or three times before), 
For from neither a word I received. And once 
I was in despair ! and I cannot express 
How unhappy it made me ; and yet, none the leM 
Did I trust him, nor lose for one moment in him 
Bij oonfide&oe ; and I felt sure he'd not baes 



954 STOLEN WATERS. 

In fault in the matter. \Vlieu I coiUd roprwiB 

No longer the grief which I ctm but confess 

Elftch day but beotune moi*e unbearable still, 

The suspense and iuixiety no force of will 

Could suppress, which was killing me — Fannie would iaf 

" Why was I so sad, why not try to be gay ? 

She was sure I had nothing to trouble me I " She 

Would thought diftbrently had she changed places with m^ 

Were her husband away from her, ill, perhaps blind, 

Or sleeping in Death's ioy clasp — and a line 

Or a word of, or from him she could not receive, 

She would weep, and imagine she'd retison to grieve, 

I say this deliberately. I believe 

He's no less de^ir to me thiui her husband to her. 

I was just as assured he was ill, as if word 

To that effect I had received. 

An event 
Of some moment, six weeks or so after I went 
To Boston, occurred, which Til briefly state her© : 
When just finished shopi>ing, one day, sharp and clear 
A fire alarm struck from the " Old South " church bell, 
And was echoed all over the city, as well. 
A few moments later the tuigiues rushed past, 
A mad crowd in their wake. They were all gone at last, 
Auvl crossing the sidewalk, I signalled a car, 
Then leisurely walked out to meet it. Not ftu* 
Had I gone, ere I heanl shouts of " luxate ! " and was caught 
Dragged on to the platform, and thrust quick as thought 
In the car, where a man on the left in liia arms 
Clasped me close — then a crash, a few screams of alarm, 
Or of i>ain, and I, trembling «nd white, but unharmed. 



STOLEN WATERS. 9M 

Was released, and sat down. And then, for the first time, 

I knew what the danger had been, lUail divined 

What a hairbreadth osonpo T had suffered. It »eeimi 

That an engine, iu all its mad fury — imseen 

And unheard of by nio — was directly lehind 

The car, which, obeying the signal of mine, 

By stopping provoked the collision, which then 

Could not be avoided. They told mo that when 

They sjiw me approaching they thought I coidd not 

Esciipe certjiin death. I, unconscious of whftt 

Was menacing me, luust assuredly met 

The fate which then threatened — 1 shudder e'en yet, 

When I think of it — had it not been for the kind 

And prom}>t action of those on the car at the time, 

And the interposition direct of Di^'ine 

Omnipotent love tmd protection. It seemed 

A miiiicle, almost, that saved me. I deemed 

It indeed nothing less. The polo of the engine 

Was half-way tlirough the car, and the door was crushed iHf 

The window-pane shattered, and weak women screamed. 

And attempted to faint, and the crimson blood stretunei 

From both cheek and hiuid of one man near the dcor ; 

Another one had his coat torn ; sevenil more 

Were injured iu person or dress — yet was 7", 

More exposed than all others, by diinger passed by. 

And I stood there unharmed and untouched. Not » irord 

Did I speak, but to luiswer, when if 1 was hurt 

Tliey kindly inquired. 1 almost held my breath 

At the Power which saved me from violent death. 

And I thought that I never would murmur again 

At whatever might come; or despair, feeling then 



256 STOLEJS WATEB& 

That there must be something in store for me yot> 
Or I would not been spared ; and, resohing to fret 
No more at Fate's fickleness, wiiit for the end 
With patience, \vith trust, and with hope. 

To mj frifltt^ 
My dearest y I wrote the last day of the year, 
With ho}>es that would bring me some tidings. A mera 
Note only, I sent, scarce a page, yet I knew 
*Twas enough to assure him that I wiis " still true," 
And that if he was well he'd let nie know the same. 
In due time, to my joy, a reply to this came. 
It was brief, but he stated he'd written me three 
Directed according to ordei-s. That he 
Had been sick, as a matter of course, but was better. 
That note I was not to consider a letter ; 
Was just leaving town, and had no time to write; 
Would only be gone a few days, then I might 
Expect to hear from him agiiin. But although 
I waited, and hoped, besides writing, also, 
One or two more to him, yet not one other lino 
Did I receive from him, in all the long time 
I was absent. And though I wrote Annie, again 
And again, I heard nothing from her. This, too, when 
From Colonel Alhiir I was hearing each week, 
And from home twice as often as that, not to speak 
Of others more transient ; yet not one was lost. 
And I thought it was hard those I wanted the most 
Should have been just the ones to miscarry. 

There WM 
In Maiden a friend of my brother-in-law's, 
Whose acquaintance I made while in B. There was no\ 
All during my stay, a week passed by, but what 



HTOLEJS WATERS, 261 

He was there, and quite often more frequently etilL 

I liked Lim very much, and had reason to feel 

The attachment wtis mutual. Indeed, we at oii.oe 

Became very good friends ; and the long, weary montlui 

Of my absence from home his society could 

But render more pleasant, indeed, than they would 

Have otherwise been. And between us one bond 

Of union there was, he knew naught of. I found 

That heM "loved and lost ; " and though he little thought 

That I was awai^e of the fact, I could not 

Avoid feeling for him, from the depths of my heart. 

He, knowing the day that I meant to depart, 

Met me at the depot, and bade me farewell 

With regi-et that was evident. jT cannot tell 

When again we shall meet — probably not for long — 

But with pleasure 1 ever shall look back upon 

Our pleasant acquaintance. 

We*d been a short timo 
In B. when my sister's health slowly declined, 
And soon after the birth of the " Happy New Year," 
She seemed slipping from earth, while with anguish aii4 

tears. 
We knew we could ne'er stay the fluttering soul. 
Felt her feet would be soon threading streets of pure gold, 
Her weary head pillowed on Jesus' true breast, 
And her impatient spirit forever at rest. 
My mother and father were summoned in haste, 
And came on, expecting to see the dear face 
Frozen, white, by the kiss of the conqueror. Death ; 
And indeed, we could fancy his icy cold breath 
BUmI fanned her pale cheek, so near his portals grim 
Did her faltering feet then approach. I had beep 



268 STOLEN WAIEHS. 

Last to give ap all hope, and I night and iay paased 

By her side, 'till upon the fair brow gathered fast 

Tlio coJd dews of death, the pulse llickered and failed^ 

The soft loving eye became dim, 'neath the nails 

The purple bloou settled; then 7112/ hope was gone; 

In my heart I then bade her a silent, and long, 

Last farewell, thinking never to see her again, 

*TiU the jewel was lost from the casket. But when 

The night waned, the grim visitor slunk from our dooiy 

And fair hope fluttered back to our sad hearts one© mcra 

What a trying time 'twas to us all ! In despair 

Was her husband — her children gi'ief-stricken — all care 

Devolved upon me, no less troubled, indeed ! 

Truly strength must be given to us as we need, 

Or I could not endured what I did in those days. 

WTien we gave up the loved one, I promised to stay 

As long as they needed my presence ; although 

The effort which it required, God alone knows I 

But I counted the cost, and still felt it to be 

A duty for me to remain. I could see, 

When, later she iold me that I was indeed 

Such a comfort to her when she felt that her feet 

Were fast slipping over the brink, why impelled 

I was to leave Brooklpi, last fall, and, as well, 

One reason why God spared my life weeks before, 

When 'twas in fearful peril. When she, as of yore. 

Was again in our midst, seemed as if we'd had one 

Uiven back from the grave. 'Till her heal+h had beoomc 

Sufficiently firm to permit a i*esume 

Of her family's charge, I remained, and then iiooii 

romed my joyful sf«ps homeward. 



STOLEN WATEB8. ^9 

Awaiting me theze, 
t found a nice letter from Colonel Allair. 
Have to-day been in town, and of course called to try 
And some tidings obtain of my love. Just as I 
Had expected, I found he was HI. 'Twas about 
Three weeks, they informed me, since he had bMsa out J 
Was no better when last they had heard — yesterday. 
Though this knowledge made me very sad, I must say 
Even that was much better than longer suspense. 
Of late my anxiety's V)een most intense. 
I knew not, of course, but in all this long time, 
Death had entered his door. Relieved was I to find 
My dear one was living, though 'prisoned within 
A silen*. and darkened apartment. For him 
It is very hard thus afflicted to be — 
Hard for him — for all his — doubly painful for me, 
WTio must constant suspense and uncertainty feel. 
And cannot be near him to nurse, soothe, or heaL 



AprU im, 1867. 

THURSDAY. 

i had been home from Boston not more than a week 
When somewhat surprised was I at the receipt 
Of another nice letter from Colonel Allair - 
Although none was due me ; and, wondering where 
I could be all that time that from me he'd net heard* 
He was anxious extremely, he said, for some word, 
And feared there'd befallen me some accident 
iky my way home from B. Not in any event 



S60 STOLEN WATESS. 

Expressing one doubt of myself. My dear boy t 
His letter was most kind, and gave me much joy. 
A short time after my return, Annie one day 
Came over to see me, and said, by the way, 
That while I was absent she wrote me three timeB| 
Yet not once did I hear. 'Tis indeed to my mind 
Very incomprehensible. 

Sow sad I was 
All day Sabbath ! yet from no particular cause, 
Or rather no new cause ; old griefs, and the old 
And yet ever new wounds ! Not alone the untold 
Despair of my wasted, unwise, hopeless love, 
But my long-broken vows to my Father above, 
Lost hope, and lost happiness. 7" can't convey 
To these pages, how heavy my heart was all day. 
But 'tis gone, and I will not attempt its recall — 
A passing cloud merely, yet, however small, 
Dark and heavy with rain-drops ; but only such as 
Have over my life-sky but too often passed, 
And more and more frequently still, as the swift 
Flitting years cnward roll. And to-day the cloud-drifts 
Have been scarcely less dark. All the night I had dreaiDS 
Of m.j friend — dreams not pleasant. With morning's 

first beams, 
X weeping awoke. I'm so anxious I It seems 
As though I could not any longer endure 
This racking suspense. No one knows, I am sure, 
Half how wearying 'tis. Were it but allowed me 
To see him, to soothe a few moments, 'twould be 
A blest privilege ; but I have neither the rightt 
Nw the power ; tut 'tis very hard to be quits 



STOLEN WATERS, 261 

Coateni always. Oh, why do I love him? And whj 

Can I not give him up ? When ia B., by the by, 

A friend casually said, " Two years is a long time 

To be constant I " But I, unto this love of mine, 

So hopeless, perhaps unrequited, have been 

Not two, but fowr years, nearly, constant. And in 

My heart, I must own, that the love is to-day 

Warmer, purer, and sweeter, and in every way 

More deep and enduring than ever before. 

There is sweet with the pain, balm is oft sprinkled o'oi 

My heart's bitter anguish. I love him with truth. 

And with purity. So there is nothing, forsooth, 

In the love that should shame me ; and only an act 

Accomplished long years ere I knew him, in fact. 

Almost in my babyhood, makes love like mine 

A sin, and the simplest endearment a crime. 

I did wrong, in the first place, I do not deny I 

But most bitterly have I been punished, and I 

Can but feel that the sin has been here expiated. 

And by it the hereafter will not be shaded. 

Over me for a long time the cloud has hung low ; 

Will its sable edge never roll backward, and show 

The bright splendor beneath ? Or are the few sweet 

Brief moments of happiness, exquisite, deep, 

That his presence has always afforded, to be 

The whole compensation intended for me. 

For the anguish and paia I've endured, and must yet ? 

The one brilliant gem in a setting of jet ? 

The one gleam of light in the darkness so long 

Enshrouding me ? " Sorrow and silence are strong, 

And patient endurance is CJod-like I " one writes. 

And if that end's accomplished, my heart made Gk>d-]ik6^ 



262 STOLEN WATERS, 

If by patient endurance of tnis bitter grief 

I am ** purified, strengthened, perfected," in brie^ 

If through that I gain Heaven, I'll think it, indeed, 

Lightly won, and give thanks for the glorious need. 

A notice in this evening's paper just caught 

My eye, and which proved to be, just as I thought^ 

Intended to summon to-morrow a.m. 

Certain lodges of masons to meet, and attend 

The funeral rites of a member. My heart 

Stood still 'till I read it, and found that the hard| 

Cruel dread at my heart-strings was not realized ; 

That others were called to mourn, not me ; and eyes 

And heart filled with gratitude. My mourning coali 

But be secret, and kill me it certainly would. 

It seems as if that blow I never could bear ; 

Me from that bitter trial, I pray God to spare. 



May ith, 1867. 

SATURDAY. 

About two weeks ago, I despatched a brief note 
To my dearest, and after the date, merely wrote 
** B. S. is at home ; when you're well enough, write 
To the usual address." And I hoped that I might 
Hear at once ; but a week or more passed by before 
I received a reply ; then he did not write more 
Than a half-dozen lines. Had a few days been oat| 
He hoped permanently ; but he was about 



STOLEN WATERS, 263 

Broken down. For warm weather was praying, with trust 
That hifl health would recruit. My poor love ! though il 

must, 
Without doubt — summer's warmth — have the Ibnged-fts 

effect, 
Ajud bring his old buoyancy back again, yet 
I fear winter's cold will prostrate him again. 
And undo all the glad summer's work, and as then 
Make him captive to pain. If with him I could be, 
I'd such care of him take ! Why did fate deny me 
What would be such a boon ! Nothing more I'd desire 
Than to watch o'er him, nurse him in sickness — aspire 
To naught better than in all his joy to rejoice. 
Support and give comfort in sorrow. A choice 
It is not mine to make. Were he healthy and strong 
It would not be so hard. And if one of these long 
And repeated attacks should my darling leave blind 1 
How could I endure it ? I've known for some time 
That 'twas possible, probable even ; yet I 
Am not, and ne'er shall be, prepared for it. Why, 
When I think of that, should I forever be teased 
With the memory of " Jane Eyre " and " Rochester " ? H€ 
Was blind, also, and she was permitted to be 
tight and eyes to him ; yet, when he'd health and strength, 

then 
Circumstances and stem destiny parted them. 
But my " Rochester," he, my darling, my love. 
Does not need me. God grant me from Heaven aboTe 
Strength sufficient the weight of my sorrow to bear I 
It grows very burdensome ; and in despair 
I almost sink beneath it.. Will ever there come 
A. better tome for me ? The colonel, in one 



264 STOLEU WATSBSi 

Of his last le+ters, vrites — " 'Tis indeed a long, longi 
Weary night, that no : one promise gives of the monu^ 
When will dawn for me break ? 

I wrote him in replj 
To his note, saying Saturday afternoon I 
Would be in. For an answer I looked all the week. 
But 'twas not 'till the day I appointed received. 
I went to the door when the carrier called, 
And he passed me three letters ; the last one of all 
Was the one long desired. In the folds of my dress 
I slipped it, and though I could scarcely repress 
My expectant impatience the contents to read 
Of the unopened letter, then lying, indeed. 
So near to my heart, yet I forced myself to 
Read both of my other long letters quite through — 
i)ne each from my brother and sister — and then 
1 hastened upstairs to devour the contents 
Of the other. He merely wrote, though, he would Im 
At the L. about six o'clock Saturday eve. 
I at once made my toilet, then up town to see 
My friend Annie I went, and returned at the time 
Appointed. But scarcely expected to find 
My love at the L., as I wrote him in mine 
I should not be in if it rained, and It did 
Nearly all the p.m. ; knew his health would forbid 
Of his braving a storm ; and he came not. 

I sent 
Another, and made an appointment again 
For yesterday. Ajid I am able once more 
To record plsasant things, and to write as of yore^ 
Of realized anticipations, and bright, 
Sweet hopes all fulfilled. And if, while I shall wiitt 



tiTOLBN WA1KR& 265 

Of yesterday's happiness, there should sometimes 

A word of endearment slip out, from the mine 

Of my love for him, why should I care ? Why repiem 

The impulse to utter the deep tenderness 

rhat broods in my heart for him, when I well know 

rhai these pages will be by no eyes but my own 

Seen ever, at least while 1 live. And when " life's 

Fitful fever" is o'er, and 1 " sleep," why should I 

Be concerned as to what may be then seen and thought? 

Those who would for my weakness condemn me, do not 

Know what they in the like circumstances would do ; 

And those, who in any degree have been through 

The temptations and trials besetting me so. 

Will pity me, rather than censure ; will know 

How utterly wretched I often liave been. 

And while to the dregs all the bitter drops in 

The full cup of love I have drained, very few 

Of its sweets I have tasted. That life's to me, too, 

But " a harvest of barren regrets," and a blight 

All my sweet hopes of happiness, fleeting as bright. 

My mother I Ho'^ she would feel did she know all I 
She wonders why I am so sad, and why pall 
All my pleasures so soon. And she may some time know 
J-iome time solve the riddle that puzzles her so. 
); would not have her now, as I know that it would 
Cause her much pain, and could do no possible good. 
I can't give him up 1 want the requisite strength : 
I expect that 1 may be obliged to, at length, 
By trie strong force of circumstances ; and 'till then 
1 cling to liim ; hoping as my love for him 
Is involuntary, uncontrollable, in 



«66 STOLEN WATSB& 

All respects pure and true, tha it may be forgi^CA 
And not future punishment biing. I have striyen, 
God knows, to o'ercome it, and think I have had 
My chastisement aU of the time, in the sad, 
Bitter humiliation it caused, the frequent 
Disappointments, the grief which seems ne'er to be spenii 
The hopeless heart-achings for one who from me 
Is eternally sundered. 

I feared it would be 
Stormy yesterday, also ; as all the forenoon 
Was cloudy, with strong, cold, east winds ; but it soon 
After noon cleared away very pleasant. At four 
I left home, and I then went direct to the store. 
The first one I saw when I opened the door 
Was mj friend, and not far from the entrance. He canM 
At once up to me ; when we'd greetings exchanged, 
I asked if to go up it was his intent. 
Ho replied " Yes ! at six ? " and I gave an assent, 
And hastened away. I had waited for him 
An hour nearly, and hs a half hour too had been 
There, before we discovered each other, through some 
Slight misunderstanding. I stood not far from 
The entrance, and very much vexed I felt, too, 
And thought if he did not come up, when he knew 
That I was in town, and he'd promised to come, 
I'd never forgive him, nor ever make one 
More appointment, when just at that moment my hand 
Was taken, a few words of greeting said, and 
I turned, and my love was beside me. Remained 
There a moment, then went in. Oh I how he had changed ( 
And how my heart ached as I saw in his face 
The ravages which two months' illness had traced. 



STOLEN WATERS. S61 

He had grown an old man since last autumn, and yet 
To my heart he is dearer than ever. 

He said 
He ■WTOt(; me thrice after the note I received, 
None of which came to hand — and said last, he believMl 
He sent me a paper. It is strange, indeed 1 
At first we of mere commonplaces conversed , 
But after a time we dropped into the first 
Serious conversation that ever has passed 
Between us. I wrote him, I think in my last. 
With my whole force of will I was trying to gain 
The courage to give him up wholly ; obtain 
The requisite strength to say, never agaia 
I'd a meeting appoint, no more letters write him ; 
When we met we would talk of a parting ; and in 
The interim hoped he would think of it. Yet, 
When first I referred to it, laughingly met 
All I said with evasion, and when I reproved, 
Retorted by saying, " But you're smiling, too I " 
But his playfulness he at length dropped, and became 
As serious as I could desire. With his cane 
Clasped in one hand, his other one holding his hat. 
Which he from the table beside which we sat 
Had taken a moment before, and his head 
Bent slightly, he listened to all that I said, 
Attentively, gravely, and ans'Jv^eriug, too. 
As occasion demanded . 

I briefly reviewed 
Our long, desultory acquaintance, and when 
I spoke of the grief he had caused me, he then 
Asked what he had done. I referred, in reply. 
To his frequent neglect of my letters, his sligbl 



868 STOLUN WATERS 

Of my wishes, his failure engagements to keep, 
And the like. But he answered, I yet did not Bpeak 
Of what he had done^ only what he had not. 
That ho would prefer condemnation, he thought, 
For emissive, rather than commissive sin. 
I asked if he meant to imply that he'd in 
Disregarding my wishes sinned less than he might 
In fuliilluig them ; and, tliat if so, he was right, 
I had not a doubt. That was not, he replied, 
What he meant ; but for what he'd omitted to dOy 
He would rather be censured, when censure was <iu6, 
Thau condemned for a wrong he had done. 

As Iknew 
He had long been aware of my love, reckless, too, 
k& a woman is ever, when once she's betrayed 
Aji affection she should have kept hidden away, 
I told him quite plainly how dear he had been, 
How much more than all others I still cared for him^ 
And added, I did not expect him to think 
Any more of me, seeing how little I shrink 
From telling him so — but ho lifted his head, 
And, " No lesSy certainly ! " with much earnestness (udd. 
Of course that was most gi-atifying to me, 
And more so, as he the truth proved it to be. 
I spoke of his letters, how cold and how brief 
They had been, with exception of those I received 
Just before I left home, adding Hiey were, in fact, - 
Satisfactive entirely. With quick, eager act, 
Asked if that was the truth ; said he was glad of thaij 
Very earnestly. And, then I told him, however 
W^e'd quarrelled in our ecrrespondence, there never 



STOLEN WATERB. 269 

f Ittd bc{3u in our interviews aught to regret ; 

Those had been very pleaacmt in every respect. 

With a smile most expressive, he looked up at that^ 

And my hand— he had taken in his 'neath his hat — 

Warmly pressed, but said naught. Of how little to aim. 

And how much to me our acquaintance had been 

I then spoke. And he answered in such an odd way, 

As if all he wished to he did not dare say. 

Or his strong feelings made it an effort to speak, 

That to him it had been very pleasant indeed. 

I spoke of how humbling the very fact was, 

Of my caring for him, and the consequent loss 

Of my own self-respect. But he " could not see why," 

He answered ; and I in surprise made reply, 

" Well, first, you are married I " He raised his bowed bead, 

With a most meaning smile interrupting me, said, 

" I know that, very well I " I continued, that it 

Was, of course, very wrong for me, he must admit, 

To care more for him than for others, who were 

Mere passing acquaintances ; and, not a word 

To speak or to write to him, had I a right. 

Except what his wife with propriety might 

Either hear or perceive ; and he surely must see 

How deeply humiliating it must be 

To one proud as I, to be forced to confess 

I had lavishly wasted the deep tenderness 

Of the first, only love of my heart upon one 

Who cared nothing for me. While I spoke there had com« 

A slight flush to his cheek, though until I had done 

Never lifted his eyes. Looking up then, he asked 

How I knew that. ** Knew what ? " I inquired, and thert 



870 eiOLEN WATERS, 

A slight linge of embarrassment into his tone, 

As he answered — his hand pressing warmly my owm— 

" How know you that I do not care more for you 

rhan I do for all other fair women ? " I knew 

I*d no reason to think that he did, I replied. 

He answered, of course he might say that he liked, 

Or loved me, indeed I but, it never would do 

To say all he might, and he had no right to. 

Well ! neither had I, I replied, but I did. 

But he said there was naught to force me to restrict 

My acts or my words. I'd a right to say what 

And all that I pleased ; to another was not 

Bound, as he was ; I'd no one, of course, to object. 

And I could but feel for him an added respect 

For his truth to the ties that were round him, nor yet 

Did I love him the less that his lips failed to speak 

Words of love which to me would have been very aweoi 

Then with much hesitation I told him, one more 
Matter was there, I wished to refer to, before 
We'd finished our confab. That sometimes I'd thought^ 
Since we parted last fall, that I did not know what 
He would think of me, as I at that time, I knew, 
With scarce a remonstrance, submitted unto 
The caresses he oftcred, and feared that he might 
Not perhaps understand, that as almost a right, 
From him I had taken what I should have felt 
As an insult if offered by any one else ; 
And might thiidj: I would take from another the 
He quickly replied, such a "thought never came 
In his mind for a moment ; assuring me, then, 
MLost kindly, there never had been a time when 



BTOLEN WATERS, 271 

He had felt for me a^gbt but the warmest esteem 
And most thorough respect. 

lie, my love, did not dream 
What relief and what gladness those words would afford, 
Or how much of my lost self-respect they restored. 
In return I said merely, I thought that he knew 
That I*d ever reposed most implicit and true 
Coniidence in his honor. We both had all through 
Been feeling most deeply, and I had been forced 
To make a slight pause more than once iu the course 
Of our conversation, my voice to control, 
Though we spoke but in whispers. And I, on the whole, 
His character knowing so well, how extreme 
Is his reticence, prudence, reserve — and supreme 
His command of himself, think I ought not to be 
Dissatisfied with the result. For that he 
Would say that he loved me, I did not expect. 
Though his manner has often said so, in effect. 

After sitting a short time in silence, we rose 
To leave, and together went out. I proposed 
To go from there up town, with Annie to spend 
The night ; so an errand it was his intent 
That evening to do he postponed, that he might 
Accompany me. Took a car, and had quite 
A nice chat on the way ; and we left at the street 
Where he used to resiud ; though he feared we should moH 
Some one that he knew, and he said there were those, 
And many, -vhoM be but too glad to disclose 
To his wife aught like that. 

He had been holding oloM 
My handy which he'd taken on leaving the car, 



272 STOLEN WATERS. 

But oetween the two avenues, which was not far, 

He released it, and folding his arm about me, 

Held me thus wliile we walked a short distance ; then 1m 

Again drew my hand in his arm. We turned down 

The avenue, paused at the Park, where we found 

Ourselves shortly after, and leaned o'er the gate. 

He proposing we leap in the fountain. I gave 

A laughing assent, saying we would have thus 

Death together, if life union was denied us I 

" And I thought 'twere delicious to die then, if death 

Would come while my mouth was yet moist with hlf 

breath I " 
Again, taking me to my friend Annie's door, 
Kissed, and bade me farewell, and we parted once more. 



J\m(i 18«A, 1867. 

TUESDAY. 

How one event crowds on another ! To-night 
I have, as in general, so much to write, 
I hardly know where to begin. Much, I mean. 
Which relates to my heart-life, by others unseen. 

What an odd thing my friendship is with John Allair ! 
Our fates seem somehow strangely mingled, and where 
It all is to end, I know not. There, indeed. 
Is a warmth and affection between us, we read 
Or hear of but seldom. He's called me, for long. 
His '* dear sister 1 " and that epithet covers strong 



STOLEN WATERS. 271 

Ezpiesaions of ardent attachment. In truth, 

He makea lOve to me under that guise, and, forsooth, 

Does it prettily, too I He tells me that I am 

His " pet sister," his " fondest attachment." I can 

Have not an idea how much benefit 

My letters have been to him ; and I permit 

Him to say all the sweet things he chooses, while he 

Thinka he gives naught but friendship, nor claima mon 

from me. 
And, indeed, he knows well that my heart is another's, 
And that I can only " love him as a brother." 
Well ! since I wrote last, I in trouble have been — 
Quite innocently on my part, though — with him. 
Jt again is all settled, yet J^ hardly know 
VVliat to think of him. We, for two years past, or so, 
Have written the other a letter each week ; 
Both written on Sabbath, both being received 
About the same hour Thursday mom — though Bometimei 
Until the late mail he does not receive mine. 
The week subsequent to my last record here, 
His letter came promptly, as usual. A dear, 
Charming, flattering letter it was, too, all through ! 
In the course of it, he was referring imto 
The receipt of my last, and as follows he writes : 
" It seemed, as I read it, as if by your side. 
In actual converse with you, I then sat. 
I was in such a state of communion, ere that, 
With you, and your letter then brought you, in fact| 
80 much nearer to me than you have been before, 
That, when the spell vanished, it left me once more 
The same feeling of sad and regretful vmreai 
Which I often have known, and yet cannot ezprew 



<1'74 _ STOLEN WATEBS. 

Or aocoimt for. B at it wa3 so pleasant and grand 
To feel, yes I to reaXly feel the full, bland, 
Sweet influence of your lovely spirit I I'm sure 
That my heart must have lield conversation with yonn^ 
knd feel certain that you were then thinking of me. 
Cannot you recollect where you were on that eve, 
Ajid what doiag ? Do try, dear ! and in your reply 
Fail not to inform me." 

Then thanks sent for my 
Compliment with regard to the change I had seen 
In his letters of late. He had hoped I would deem 
They had changed for the better, and he was quite proud 
To receive such assurance from me. He avowed 
More indebted for it to the " dear little friend 
Who had been to him more than a sister, and sent 
Her blest influence him to assist in attempts 
At self-culture," he was, than to any beside. 
And 'twas his most sincere, earnest prayer that she might<| 
For the manner in which she that part had performed 
Of her mission on earth, have a full, sweet reward. 
Adding, " So do not think, little dear stricken heart, 
Ttat your life is a blank I " 

Of this letter, a part 
To Nettie, my dear friend, I read. Many times 
She exclaimed at its elegance, praising its fir^, 
Pleasing sentiments, and, when at her strong desire 
I had shown her his picture, which much she admired, 
In her arch, pretty way she uplifted her head, 
And, " how can you help loving him, darling," she sai i| 
** When he is so handsome, and loves you so, too? 
to »ay nothing of Lis charming letters to you 1 " 



STOLEN WATERS. 27-5 

Bh© thought then, and 'till recently, -w© were engagei, 
And beieyed naugbt I could to the contrary saj'. 

I could not at first recollect how I passed 
The evening to which he referred ; but at last 
It all in an instant across my mind flashed. 
Bitting close to my love, in the L.'s reading-room, 
\xi such deep conversation it might be presumed 
Cd no thought but for him who then sat beside me. 
A.nd I wished it had been any other time he 
Had desired information concerning ; but knew 
That part of his letter I must reply to 
Or offend him ; of course, I could tell him, too, naught 
But the truth, which I did ; but yet writing, I thought, 
About it, in such a way he'd feel, indeed, 
Rather flattered than otherwise. Well, I received 
His reply in due time. 'Twas brief, cold, and he wrote 
Conmionplaces alone. And he said at the close — 
" If this note, dear " (the only place where the first word 
Of endearment — of which he is lavish — ocourred), 
* Proves uninteresting, does not satisfy. 
You must excuse me, for a good letter I 
Could not write you to-day, so unlike it I feel ; 
And the reason I may, perhaps, some day reveal. 
Be a good girl, and ever remember your friend ! " 
I was both perplexed and indignant. The end 
Was much like the whole. I could all overlook 
Except one thing ! — the coldness, constraint I could brook^ 
Thinking he might be troubled, in spirits depressed, 
Were it not for the manner in which 'twas addressed — 
" My dear friend ! " At the head he in general -writes, 
** My sweet sister, " " My dear little pet," and the like. 



276 STOLEN WATERS. 

And 1 knew there was naught but displeasure with me 

That could prompt him to write in that way ; and could 

No cause for it, either, but what I wrote him 

Of how I was occupied on the evening 

Of which he inquired ; and I could not see why 

That should had such results. I regretted that I 

Had written about it ; though he, in effect 

Forced me to. And yet, what is his right to object 

To my passing the eve with whoever I choose ? 

Does he thiuk all companionship I must refuse, 

While I hold correspondence with him — a mere Mend f 

If he does, I imagine he'll find, in the end. 

His mistake. And the more I thought of it, the more 

I indignant became. Nettie, lookiog it o'er, 

Declared that at length he had " found, with surprise, 

That his friendship turns out to be love in disguised 

And I thought even h« could not censure me much 

If I half suspected the same. There was such 

An air, too, of misery all the way through ; 

And that no trifling thing it could be, I well knewy 

To cause him to write in that manner to me. 

I did not reply 'till the next Sabbath eve. 
And then said — " Let us not repetition have, John, 
Of last summer's experience. If I have done 
Aught to vex you, why, tell me with frankness what, mm 
I'll apologize, or take it back, if I can. 
Whatever it may be, you surely must know 
It was done innocently, unwittingly ; so 
My couscience is clear, wid I'd certainly no 
Desire nut co please you." The following week 
Game hi« osual letter — although, of oonrae, he'<| 



STOLEN WATEBS, 271 

N^ot received mine as yet, as four da^s are required 

For a letter to go, and so when we desire 

To receive more than one ^n two weeKs, it becomM 

Necessary for two »ets of letters, not one , 

So this was the answer to one sent before : — 

It was long, and as loving as ever, and bore 

To the other no reference ; but, there was quite 

An undertone through it of sadness, unlike 

Any I have had from him before. Did not write 

As early as usual, in fact, not 'till night. 

Then said — " But while I've, dear, been silent all day, 

I do not think you've from my thoughts been away 

For more than five minutes at any one time. 

And not often for such a duration. In fine, 

Ir my thoughts you've a fixture become I " 

This, I deeiiea 
Was a good deal to say ! Many other nice things, 
And pleasant, he said, that I cannot write here. 
It is too bad to tease him so, he's such a dear, 
Good boy, such a kind, such a true, loving friend I 
And to do so I certainly did not intend. 
The next week brought an answer to mine, which 

contained 
Of the cause a complete explanation, the same 
Which I had surmised. And then, lest that should not 
Restore him in full to his place in my heart. 
Wrote again in a few days. Since then it has been 
All right, and I think no more of it. 

Within 
The past month I have thought with more senoufliien 
Than J ever have previously flone^ I confess. 



278 STOLEN WATJBBSi 

k )f my lore giving up. And I ne*er realized 

Bo fully before what a great sacrifice 

It would be, what an effort 'twould cost. Opening 

A- book, pencil-marks of his were the first thing 

Which I saw there. I entered the parlors, wherein 

Were so many things to remind me of him — 

The rocker he'd lounged in, the sofa where we 

Together had sat, books and albums which he 

Had handled. Upstairs I came, opened my desk, 

There were letters in his clear handwriting addressed^ 

His dear picture beside them. Each time I exclaimed, 

With a shudder, " How ccm I ! " And when evening cam^ 

And I opened my journal to write, I discerned, 

The first thing, a poem he sent me ; I turned 

A few leaves, and a picture was there brought to "view, 

Which was eloquent of the bright hour when we two 

Looked at it together — and his name I found 

Upon every page. Closed my book, and threw down — 

Without writing — my pen My heart turned sick with 

dread. 
And " I never can do it, I ccmnotf^^ I said, 
I felt that there was a vast difference between 
Giving him up entirely, and living on e'en 
The terms we do now. I dismissed from my mind 
All thought of the sacrifice. 

Some little time 
Ago, I received a newspaper from him ; 
Expecting it, answered the carrier's ring 
Myself, and upstairs took it, ere I went back 
To the room I had left, and where mother then sat^ 
Bhc said naught of it, but it seems thought the more^ 
For, a few days thereafter, I slipped out the door 



STOLEN WATERS. 379 

And ran to the box at tbe comer, a note 

To him to deposit. Mamma did no know 

That we, since we parted some three years ago. 

Have had any intercourse. When back I Camay 

She asked if to him I was writing again. 

I could not deny it, of course ; on tjie whole, 

Found " open confession was good for the souL" 

I told her, with tears which I could not repress, 

The whole bitter truth ; nothing did I suppress. 

And I'm so glad she knows it ! . It's taken, indeed. 

From my mind a great burden. That I had deceived 

My dear, kind, loving mother, has long been to me 

A inost bitter thought. And I knew, too, that she. 

Felt almost contempt for my darling ; but when 

I told her how generous, noble, he'd been — 

In all this long time how he never had made 

One attempt, e'en, the slightest advantage to take 

Of the love he had long known so well, and how true 

His regard and esteem was for me, and how, too, 

I thoroughly honor and trust him — ^how glad 

I was I could say it ! — she told me if that 

Was the truth, he was one in a thousand ; and said, 

Though that I should love him she could but regret. 

To our being good friends she would never object. 

Nor, indeed, to our seeing each other, so long 

As she now was assured there was nothing more wrotg. 

My dear mother ! so kind to her sad, wayward child I 

God bless her ! and keep me from turning her smUoi 

To tear-drops of sorrow ! It gave me such joy 

She should change her opinion of Aim, my dear bojf t 

Such gladness to have her at length learn to know 

All his true wor^h and honor. 



^80 STOLEN WATBB8, 

A few days ago, 
1 was in at the store for a short time, and had 
With him quite a nice, pleasant little con&b. 
All the good looks his illness last winter dispell 
He'd regained ; and that day he was looking so wtllf 
And so handsome, I fell in love over again I 
He promised to write me on Friday, and when 
The next morntag passed by without bringing to OM 
The dear note, I was much disappointed ; but he 
Is as scrupulous, ever, a promise to keep, 
As careful in making one ; so I believed 
He had a good reason. The note was received 
Yesterday. 'Twas a nice, pleasant letter, indeed I 
He said he was sorry tfiat I should have been 
Disappointed that morning in hearing from him; 
But Friday he could not the time get to say 
Even one word to me. 

I've been feeling, to-day, 
Very sad I For " forbidden fruit " pining in vain ; 
My heart aching with dull and incurable pain 
For the soft " stolen waters " of his priceless love, 
Which would be to me so passing sweet — sweet, aboTC 
^ the passion and depth of another's ! Once more 
I revolved in my mind, as I have done before, 
If 'twere possible for me my love to give up, 
And from my heart's chambers his dear presence sknt. 
But from the diead prospect as usual I shrink, 
And to him my weak heart still persistently clings. 
How much I would like, on this beautiful night, 
A ramble with him in the clear, soft moonlight ; 
Or a nice, cosey chat, in a nice, pleasant room, 
Open casements, our only light that of the moon. 



STOLEN WATBS8. 281 

Others such bliss enjoy, why should T be denied ! 

How I envy her who has an undoubted right 

To his presence, his love, his caresses ! And she 

Does not know her good fortune, does not, I believe, 

Her happiness prize as she should. And would I, 

I wonder, if I could her place occupy ? 

I think 80, yet " each heart knows its own bitterness," 

And how much there is of " connubial bliss " 

In that household, I've no means of knowing. I've thought 

Sometimes, he loves me I but if so, or if not, 

I never shall know. How unutterably sweet 

Words of love from his dear lips wovdd be — ^he who Epeaia 

So Kttle. Yet I could scarce love or respect 

Him so much, were he not always so circumspect, 

So faithful, so careful to ever be true 

To her unto whom his allegiance is due. 

My good, precious boy I lost forever to me, 

Yet how dear to my heart must my love ever be ' 



July 14^, 1867. 

SUNDAY. 

Have been quite indisposed all the day, and to-night 
A.m so very unhappy ! too much so to write. 
Or to do aught but weep ; for there's now going on 
In my mind, such a conflict between right and wrong, 
Rftligion and love ! And oh ! what can I lo ? 
What ought I to do ! How I wish tJiat I knew 
And had courage to do it. I feel there is xifi tgbt 
[ can do in regard to the former, withe ut 



282 STOLEN W^ATEBa. 

I make an entire sacrifice of the last. 
Unless I can root from my heart all the vast 
Wealth and power of this fatal passion. How eem 
I give up my darKng ? How part from the man 
VVho is dearer to me than the whole world beside ? 
Could the struggle I ever sustain ? Is there life, 
Strength, endurance, enough in my heart to suffice 
To support me, my broken heart heal ? God alone 
Knows how bitter 'twould be. Could I part from "mJ 

own" 
Forever ? Put far from my sight everything 
That in any degree should remind me of him ? 
Never hope him to see or to hear from again ? 
'Twould indeed be a trial most fearful ! And when , 
It was o'er, in my life what a drear blank 'twould leave. 
Once resolved on, I woiUd not turn back, I believe ; 
But I fear the required resolution will be 
Not obtained very soon. I'll think of it, and see. 



July \bih, 1867. 

MOXDAT. 

Only twenty-four hours since herein I wrote last ; 
And more than twelve hours ago was the die cast, 
Tlie deed done, and the fatal words said that will part 
Me forever from him who's the joy of my heart. 
The dearest of all earthly objects to me. 
And whose name is inscribed on this book's every \ttJL 
V write this with no tear ; for my fountain of grief 



STOLEN WATEB& 281 

Hours ago was exhausted. The tear-drops haye all 
Trickled down to my heart, and lie there like a pall, 
4 dead weight of sorrow. 

Last night I spent hours 
In weeping, and deep, troubled thought ; for the powei 
O/ conscience, awakened, would make itself heard, 
And pierced my poor heart with each soft-spoken wonL 
It told me that I had been sinful and weak ; 
Had yielded, where I should resisted. Like Eve, 
I had suffered myself to be tempted, beguiled 
Into tasting of fruit that's forbidden. And while 
Unto the dominion of passion so wrong — 
Notwithstanding its purity — I should succumb, 
I never could hope to regain what I lost 
Years ago, grace and favor of God. If I was 
Not feeling to Him as I ought, I at least 
Could my duty perform, and the whole issue leave 
In His hands ! And when at the untold sacrifice 
My heart murmured, and in bitter agony cried 
That its idol it could not give up, a reply 
To my soul in a small, stilly voice softly came — 
** Shall Jesus for you have died whoUy in vain ? 
Think what He for you suffered I and can you aot do 
This, even, for Him ? " Thus presented unto 
My mind was the subject, and neither could I 
Of it rid myself, nor its force could deny. 
In a case such as that, how could I hesitate ? 
To the tempter how list, when the Yoice Divi\^ spake. 
And so " through many pangs of heart, through many tMily* 
Was the firm resolve bom that my idol for years 
Should be shattered, torn out of my heart, given ap 
In a sacrifice whole and entire, ever shut 



384 STOLEN WATERS, 

From all part in a life he had made bitter-sweet. 
A. resolve which ne'er faltered, amid all the deep 
Pain and anguish, and bitter despair which it caused-— 
And my Father above knows alone what that was I 
So religion and conscience have triumphed at length, 
Done what coldness, and slights, all my will's force 

strength. 
The contempt of the world, or a mother's regret, 
Or even the loss of my own self-respect, 
Could never accomplished. A blank, oh, how drearj. 
Is stretching before me ! A life, oh, how weary 
Must henceforth be mine ! I can't think of it yet, 
Cannot yet realize of my act the effect. 
Or say to myself I shall never again 
See or hear from my darling, from him who has been 
My one thought, whether sleeping or waking, for years. 
Oh, my burden is more, is far greater, I fear, 
Then I ever can bear ! God have mercy on me, 
Or my heart it will break ! Such a pressure of grief 
Is crushed down upon it, I scarcely can breathe. 
Oh 1 my Father in heaven, give pity, relief I 

How full of sharp agony was the whole night I 
And nothing but misery came with the light. 
Yet I know but too well that the worst is to come, 
When I from my heart must drive all thoughts of OIM 
Still and ever so dear. When I can but sucoiuub 
To the sorrow that must almost crush me ; the diunb^ 
Speechless anguish I yet must endure. I cannot 
Anticipate it I It is fearfully hard 1 
To liiTn my decision this morning I sent. 
Writing nearly as follows : 



SIVLEA WATESa. 285 

" My Dearest i 

for the last time, I am writing to you, 
To say, wholly and irrevocably, too, 
I at last give you up ! Do not smile, as yc/a read, 
And wonder how many days there will, indeed, 
Elapse, ere another from me is received. 
I am not trifling now, but am, as you must know, 
In most mis'rable earnest. Nor do I say so 
In a moment of pique at my sad, wasted love, 
Nor of anger with you — you who always have proved 
In the end, ever noble and kind, ever true- 
But after a night's hopeless pain, such as you 
May, I trust, never know. Neither think, dear, thai ai |)t 
You have done is the cause. I am siu'e you will net, 
When I tell you that never I one-half so well 
Have loved you as this moment, when saying farewell— 
Though the sad, fatal words that shall part us, my pen 
Now refuses almost to transcribe. ' And what then ? ' 
You will ask ! Simply this : that at length 
My religion and priuciple's conquered, and naught 
Beside such a great change could ever have wrought. 
Between me and my God hitherto you have stood, 
Though to you quite unconsciously. I to Him could 
Offer naught while I cherished a passion so wrong 
As I knew was my love, notwithstanding its strong 
And deep purity. Nor dare I hesitate now. 
Or longer ignore obligations and vows 
I took on myself years ago. You have been 
The innocent cause of a blight rendering 
All my happiness here, but I can't permit you 
To make void all my hopes of fdicity, too. 



286 STOLEN WATERS, 

fn tlie blissful hereafter. I know that all this 
fou feel not yourself; but know, too, my love Ib 
No sceptic, and in its existence I trust 
You believe. And some day, I am sure that you mnM 
Experience what will unite us as friends 
In that land far beyond the dark river, where ends 
All sorrow and pain, where no partings are known. 
Should we meet ne'er again 'till we meet at God's thron% 
To this it has come ! Shall this thing I not do 
For Jesus, who died both for me and for you ? 
I am no enthusiast ; I do not feel 
Tliese things as I ought ; but when duty's revealed 
So plainly to me I can ne'er hesitate. 
That at least I can do, though my heart it should break* 
Do not think I am wavering, either, or that 
My feelings will change. I do nothing by half. 
And as jThave loved you with my whole heart, as your 
Caresses, and letters, and words the most pure 
And exquisite pleasure have given to me. 
So now I, my darling, give them up, and ** thee," 
A.t once and forever- ! You never will know 
What the effort has cost me ; how fearful the blow ; 
Or what dark, dreary days I in future must see, 
When the one bitter thought of my sad heart will be^ 
My love I shall see never more, never more. 
Until death's gates are passed, 'till life's fever is o'er I ' 
Some idea, perhaps, you iDay have, of how vast 
Is the sacrifice, when, in recalling the past. 
You think with what strong pertinacity I 
Have clung to you nearly four years now gon# bf. 
Notwithstanding the bumiliation and pain 



STOLEN WATERS, 287 

Which was caused by affection bo hopeless and rain. 

But you never will realize all tiie extent 

Of the anguish with which this decision is sent, 

Consider I You'd never give m« up, I knew ; 

Ne-* er say, * I shall write no more letters to yo i, 

AnoJbher appointment I never will keep ! ' 

Knew, if it was done, my hand rmjbat do the deed. 

Indignation or anger I'd not, to assist. 

Or urge 'gainst a heart, every fibre of which 

Pleads so strongly for you. And I knew I could see 

Or hear from you often, and that you would be 

Ever noble and true. Think of this — how replete 

With pleasure, how deeply, bewild'ringly sweet 

Has our intercourse been, and you can but perceive 

That 'tis after no alight struggle I these words writ* 

It w fearfully hard I but yet rendered more light 

From the fact that I suffer alone ; that you will 

Not the cruel stroke feel as I must do. And still, 

I think you my decision perhaps may regret. 

That 'twill cause you a few bitter pangs to reflect 

That the fond Kttle friend, true to you, at such cost, 

And for such a long time, you forever have lost. 

But you'll know that she'll never forget you — ^your nam* 

Will e'er thrill her heart with a touch of the same 

Old, beautiful music — that afts'll never love 

Another, as she has loved you — far above 

And beyond all the world you must stand in her heart. 

Though she writes, with her own hand, the words, * wc muA 

part!' 
And that you'll forget her, she has never a fear. 
VoqH think of her on the last day of the yesr. 



8»8 STOLEN WATEBS. 

On the glad Christmas Eve. Think of one, now and 
Who loved you too well, if not wisely, and, when 
She loved you most dearly, resigned you, because 
She felt it was right. And if I've ever lost, 
In any degree, your respect — which, indeed, 
I've no reason to think, and which you a few weeks 
Ago kindly assured me had not been the case — 
This I trust will restore it. And I in this place 
Wish to render you thanks for your kindness so tmOi 
Forbearance, and rare generosity, too ; 
Gentle patience, and noble, complete self-control, 
Which enables us now to look back on the whole, 
And think, notwithstanding we may have done wrong, 
We have never l^een criminal. Thanks to your strong, 
Serene, and grand nature, your heart true and kind, 
For your goodness to me ; and God bless you I 

"Infuk 
I would see you once more ere the farewell is said. 
Will you call on me here ? Mother will not object ; 
She knows all, and feels for you the same true respect 
And honor that I do. And while far apart 
Our steps widely lead, the one prayer of my heart 
Is that blessings may follow yo'i all the world o'er. 
And that God will my dear one preserve evermore, 
'Till unto our rent souls comes a beautiful mom — 
When succeeds to death's darkness eternity's dawn. 
JJhis is not my farewell ! That alone I can speak 
When your arms are around me, your lips on my dieek^ 
And your true heart responding to mine at each beat — 
Cntil then I remain 

" AH yom own, 

«< Bitter SwwC* 



&TOLEN WATERS. 289 

A few days, and it all will be over ! The dream 
JSo sweet wil] have ended. My darling will seem 
To drop out of my life as if dead — dead to me 
Forever and ever, until we sh^ll meet 
"Where all are united eternally, whera 
There can be no partings, no marriage^ and there 
I, too, shall be his, and he all mine, at last I 
The feverish dream *s with the vanishing past ; 
I to calmness must now school my heart, so bereftj 
And in silence endure all the pain that is left. 



My ZOth, 1867. 

TUESDAY. 

Two weeks have elapsed since my farewell I sent 
To my love ; yet I have not, until this p.m., 
Either heard from or seen him. I did not know hoif 
To account for it. Feeling I could not allow 
Him to slip from my life without even one more 
Interview with my dear one, although, as of yore, 
Pride rebelled, I resolved I would call at the store, 
The cause of this long, cruel silence to find. 
Felt I'd crushed down my pride before too many times 
To yield to it now, and one more sacrifice 
Could matter but little — let that thought suffice — 
And went in to-day. He did seem very glad 
To see me, and I could but think that I had 
Never seen him so handsom'^ as Tie looked to-day, 
Just my beau ideal in every wa^ ' 
13 



290 STOLEN WATERS. 

In looks, dress, *ppearaiice, a gentleman tme, 

My precious, lost darling ! How plain to my view 

Comes this moment his image before me, as he 

Appeared when to-day he sto'od talking to me. 

Leaning carelessly over the counter, thereon 

Carving triangles, letters in various forms. 

And listening attentively, smiling or grave, 

To all that I said, glancing up as he gave 

TTis opinion on matters of which we conversed, 

Or his answers to me. Splendid, always ! my first, 

Only love ! While on my part I both watched and marked 

Every changiag expression ; anew on my heart 

Stamped each featui'e, in deep, ineffaceable lines. 

At once I referred to the letter of mine, 
And his failure an answer to send. He repKed, 
That I asked no return ; he thought none was required. 
I requested that he would come out, and he thought 
To do so as soon as he could, but had not 
Found as yet opportunity. 7^ said one thing 
Was certain : he could not be gladder to bring 
To a close our acquaintance, more glad it was o'er, 
Than I was. He turned to me quickly, with more 
Of pain in his eyes than I've seen there before. 
And earnestly said, " Are you glad it is o'er ? " 
That Z'm inconsistent, I know very well ! 
But, forgetting love's sweets, at that moment I felt 
Its bitterness only, and thought I could give 
The former, if I of the last might be rid. 
I told him I had not expected that he 
\Kroal(l care veiy much, but I thought tb^t for ma 



HTOLEN WATEBS. 29J 

Aiid my feelings he'd have some regard. With a teach 

Of bitterness answered he, " jT cared so much, 

0!ad 80 much regard, I decided to go 

Out to see you, but absent have been, and had no 

Opportunity yet, as before I have said." 

I told him I knew not but that he was vexed 

At what I had written of mother, as when 

She first knew about it he felt so. But then 

It was different, he said, and he rather was glad 

Than otherwise, now, that she knew it, and had 

No hesitancy about coming out. Thought 

££e would quite like to see her — would rather than noL 

He said that if possible he'd come this week. 

In the first of my record this evening, I speak 
Of my pride sacrificing by having gone in 
To ascertain why I \m.(\. not heard from him. 
And I wish to say, now, that not one moment I 
Have regretted it. Neither have I, by the by, 
Any similar sacrifice. 1 never let 
My love conquer pride, with an after regret. 
And he never seemed to think ^t/wa8 any cause 
Of triumph to him, or involved any loss 
Of my dignity or self-respect. When I've felt 
Mortified at my own want of firmness, myself- 
And weaknoHS in yielding bo much to my strong, 
Overpowering love for him, j)otent so long, 
Never word, look, or act of his added unto 
My humiliation, or showed that he knew 
Or had o'er thought of it. And how late T have leaniMi 
To i)rize all his goodness to me — to discern 
His grand generosity, charity, truth. 



292 STOLEN WJiTEB& 

Qnlj after a four years' acquaintance, forsooth^ 

And when I am losing him, too. But I am 

So thankful that I have known him 'till I cui 

Be assured that I have not unworthily love^. 

But one who on every occasion has proved 

How superior he to myself is, as well 

A-S the most of his sex. He's so good I Vw /mpellod 

More and more to esteem him each time that we meet 

And I left him to-day, loving him with more ^e«p 

And perfect a love than I ever have done, 

Were that possible. Yet I must give up the one 

Who is so dear to me 1 And I thought this p.m., 

After my return home, 'twas indeed hard, that, whfn 

A brief interview with my love gave to me 

Such pure and entire happiness, I must be 

Deprived of that, even ; that I from my heart 

Must bid his dear image forever depart, 

And learn to be reconciled to the sad thought 

That I never shall see him again. Oh I how fraught 

With anguish those words are I Of that when I thiiJc, 

** All my sunshine grows suddenly dark," and I shrink 

From the fearful oedeal I yet have to bear ; 

And my calmness is but the faiseliood of despair. 



August 6th, 1867. 

TUESDAY. 

With a heart almost broken beneath it« dread 
OiT grief and bereavement, with eyes overflowed 



STOLEN WATEBS. 39S 

VITith hot tears, trembling hand, and a faltering pen, 

In this book, which has been for so long my dear £riefni^ 

CompaiLion, and confidante, come I to make 

My last record. For' I can but feel that this day 

Should close the account of the baneful, and yet 

Most beautiful past, all its love and regret, 

All its sweetness and pain, all its sorrow ami trust ; 

And that when I shall open another, it must 

On its pages no traces contain of the sad. 

Troubled waters that these haye long flooded. 

Ihad 
No visit last week from my love, but received 
On Saturday morning a note, saying he 
Had thought he should see me ere that, but was quite 
Unwell, and unless he should get out that night 
Would be forced to defer it 'till Tuesday — to-day. 
I expected him this afternoon, and must say 
I was much disappointed when failing to come. 
But I had, just at night, such a headache come on, 
I half wished that he still might defer it, although 
*Twas with heart-throbs of pleasure I saw him approach, 
And with warm, happy welcome met him at the door. 

What an evening we spent I All the sweet shadowed o m 
By the pain of the parting that yet was in store. 
Sitting close on the sofa, my hand in his clasp. 
Conversing of future, and present, and past, 
Living ages of happiness in the few brief, 
Fleeting moments of this all too-swift-passing sve ; 
And yet, with a thread of despair through the whola. 
Realizing with pain which we could not control 
That this was the last ! Oh ! but it wcu, indeedi 



204 STOLEN ,VATBB8. 

To U8 each, in one momont, both bitter and Bweei^ 
Both happy and Had. 

We referring again 
To mamma's knowing of tlie relation which then 
Existed between us, he said that he felt 
Much pleased at that part of my letter, as well 
is greatly relieved. Was most glad thai she knew 
AJl about it, and that I'd told A^m of it, too. 
Surely 1 that alone proves how sincere*, pure, and true 
His regard for me is. I reproached him, that he 
Had ever so very reserved been with me. 
And he said all his friends of the same thing complained. 
But so strong were his feelings that he was constrained 
To use much reserve, or he could not keep them 
At all under control ; and also to prevent 
His saying a great many things he ought not. 
How true that " deep waters flow stilly," I thought, 
And that natures which are most reserved are the ones 
Most exquisitely sensitive, most finely strung, 
And susceptible unto emotion most strong. 
He has great self-command — I have known it for long. 

What a pleasure I felt it to be^ to tell him 
How greatly endeared to my heart he had been 
By acquaintance more close ; how much more I'd esteemed 
And honored him as the swift years, like a dream. 
Flitted onward ; and added — as my cheek I pressed 
To his, which was then on my shoulder at rest — 
^* And I think that you are a much better man, too, 
Than you were when we met four years since ; do not you ? ' 
In a voice with emotion all broken, he said, 
** I hope I iun, dear I " And I know that, instead 



STOLEN WATERb. W* 

Of being to w»e a defilement, this sweet, 

En+ire, perfect love, has been to me of deep, 

Lasting benefit, and a strong safeguard, as weU. 

I/oving him, I from others attentions repelled. 

Which, received, might my happiness ruined for life. 

Who knows not through suffering we're purified ? 

And as IVe suffered deeply — hmjj deeply, there's On© 

Alone knows — so I trust that my soul has become 

Purified by the dLscipline which it has known. 

And, to-day, feel that not in religion alone. 

But in character, principles, morals, I am 

Better now than I was four years since. No one can 

But acknowledge a high, pure, and perfect love has 

A refining influence upon the heart, that 

Reads the discipline of disappointipent aright. 

I believe the effect upon him has been like. 

And though I in all cases the tempter have been, 

Yet I feel that the influence I''ve had o'er him, 

On the whole, has been only for good. And I'm glad! 

How rejoiced, too, I am that I now can look back 

And say he^a never offered to me one temptation ; 

But has, in all things, been the impersonation 

Of truly magnanimous honor. My own 

Peerless love I I am glad, very glad to have known 

Him, although it has brought me such pain as to-night 

Pve been forced to endure. 

When I asked him not qniti 
To forget me, he said, no ; it was not with ease 
We old, sweet recollections ignore, and that he 
Should think very often of me ; he supposed 
He should not ever see me again ! Very close 
Was the clasp which he held me within, as wc felt 



'296 STOLEN WATBRfi 

All the force of t^ose words. We could iwt trust junelrai 

To speak much of that time, and each moment it seemed 

More and more that I never could give up the dream 

That had been, oh, so sweet ! or the farewell words say 

That should part us forever. Oh I how my heart ached. 

As the time swift approached when I knew he must go — 

Go to come nevermore. Oh, why rmist it be so ? 

God help me to bear this unutt'rable woe I 

We sat for a long time in silence complete^ 

His arm holding me tight, his face pressed to my cheek, 

Our hearts almost bursting with anguish so vast, 

With full realization that this was the last. 

Oh, how bitter-sweet these moments were as they passed I 

How we clung to each other with pain at the dread 

Ordeal through which we both had to pass yet. 

When our last we must look in each other's dear eyes, 

Where despair could but enter as hope slowly died, 

When our hands must be clasped for the last time on eartli^ 

And our quivering lips speak the last farewell words, 

I begged him to tell me once ere we ;4hould part, 
That he loved me ; but only mo/e close to his heart 
Did he press me, and murmured, " Oh, donH ask me, dear ; 
Do not ask me ; you ought not I " His voice, soft and cle«i 
In general, now sounded husky and strange. 
I urged him no longer — was answered — 'twas plain 
That he loved me ; I needed no words to assure 
Me of what I were foolish to doubt. And though pure 
And perfeafc the joy would have been from his lips 
The sweet "^ords once to hear, I did not, I admit, 
Lmre him Ibw 'that tboaa words were witt bald. Yttj hm 



V^Toiild temptation so strong have resisted, I xnew. 
And I felt verj thankful my lave was so true. 

It was time he should go ! He arose, crossed the roGMi 
Returned, and beside me his seat he resumed ; 
With his arm around me, his cheek on my bowed heady 
He so earnestly, sweetly, caressingly said : 
" I will tell you, dear, how it shall be I We'll forget 
Everything that is bad, all the good recollect. 
The remembrance of all that is sweet, that reflects 
Any pleasure to us when the past we recall, 
We will cherish forever ; and we will let all 
That's bitter or painful from memory fade. 
And never again in our thoughts have a place. 
Say ! shall it be thus ? " And I, too much moved 
To reply, by my silence alone could approve. 
For a moment he straiaed me again very close 
To his warm, throbbing heart, where he held me, as though 
He could not let me go ; then he once more arose, 
But paused 'neath the chandelier, taking a book 
From the table, at which he indeed scarcely looked ; 
Then, laying it down, toward me turned again; 
I had also arisen, stood leaning against 
The table behind him — eyes drooping, downcast, 
And a sad, bleeding heart ; both my hands he then clasped, 
Leaned his brow against mine and looked into my eyes ; 
They were brimful of tears, ajid as he turned to hide 
His emotion, I said to him, " This is the lasty 
And you do not care ! " What reproach and pain paasad 
Into both eye and tone, as he said in reply 
Merely, « Do not talk so ! " 

But time fleetly flew bj. 



i9S STOLEN WA13R8. 

And we knew he must go ; tliat the moment haA ^obm 

When my darling must leave me to never return. 

What a lifetime of anguish was crowded in thoM 

Few moments of parting 1 Again clasping close 

The hands he still held, stooped and — for the first time 

This evening — with warmth pressed his dear lips to miiiei 

In a passionate, lingering kiss of farewell. 

What love and despair it expressed, who can tell ? 

I stood where he left me, despondent, cast down, 

With no hope in my heart, and with eyes on the ground, 

'Tni he turned, with his hand on the door ; then I raised 

My eyes, and how radiant was his dear face, 

With the strong love for me which would not be denied, 

In a moment like this, all expression I Shall I 

•Forget ever that look ? Not while reason and life 

Shall endure. And half-sobbing, '^ You do love me, theoi" 

I sprang -toward him and was folded again 

Within an embrace so impassioned and strong, 

As my fluttering breath to inpede — and how long 

I scarcely can tell. But he murmured at last, 

" Farewell, and God bless you ! " released me, and passed 

From my sight ; and the closed door shut out all the light| 

Joy, and hope of a life that is henceforth a blight, 

A dreary and wearisome blank. Oh, my God ! 

Have pity, I pray ; give relief to this Iccul, 

Which is more than I ever can bear I 

Of the time 
Just after he left me this evening, my mind 
Retains no recollection. But know that I found 
Myself on the sofa, reclining face down, 
My head on my clasped hands, with no sob, and no t^UTi 
But my heart almost breaking with bitter and dreur 



STOLEN WATERS. 2W 

Hopeless agonj , such as I pray I may n« ©r 
Experience more. While it cried in its pain, 
** Oh my darling, my love, come back to me again I 
Come back, oh, come back, I can not let you go I " 
But the echoes with mocking despair answered, " No, 
Nevermore, nevermore ! " 

It is midnight I and sleep 
Refusing her watch by my pillow to keep, 
Though my temples are throbbing with pain, and my hand 
With exhaustion is trembling, and with no command 
Of my fluttering pulses, I've risen to write 
In my journal these faltering lines, and unite 
With my last sad farewell to my sorrowful love, 
My adieus to this also ; erecting above 
This grave of my heart the one blank, brittle stone 
Of forgetfulness ; praying for what one alone 
Can bestow, peace and calm to the storm in my breast, 
A rebuke to the troubled waves never at rest. 

" Stolen waters a/re sweet ! " But the most abject wo© 
Lies hidden their glittering wavelets below. 
No more shall the baneful and beautiful draught 
Touch the lips, which before have so eagerly quaffed 
Of the bright, sparkling waters. No more shall I lugw 
The bliss or the pain it so long has bestowed, 
Love's goblet is shattered ! the contents, I found 
Both bitter and sweet, are all spilled on the gro'Uil 
God forgive aU the wroug of the past, and again 
TTnite hb, where aU are eternally frienda. 



STOLEN WATERS 



PART THIRD, 



Wbat mattera a Uttle eorrow If the end la Idlaf* 



Obr. 



"Ski bitter pMt, more weloome U the swart 




Stolen WaterSc 



$srt Cfthb. 



BROOKLYN. 



August I3th, 1867. 

TUESDAY. 

Once more I commence a new journal I and clote 
rhe last, leaving it, with its story of most 
Intense pain, pleasure, passion, and letting the dear 
Inspirer of all drop from out my life here, 
As one that has never existed. /Shall it 
Be thus ? Shall I not any mention permit 
In these leaves of my heart, of the one whose dear i 
Has filled the last volumes with beauty and pain, 
As it has for so long filled my heart with its deep 
Thrilling music, so passionate, soft, low, and sweet ? 
I can't cease to think of him often, and much ! 
i know not that I wiJth to forget, or to thruBt 



304 6T0LEN WAlEa& 

The record aside of what has to me been 

So delightful in anticipation, and in 

The realization and sweet retrospect. 

For as he asked that I would alone recollect 

AH the good in the past, how can I a request 

So exquisitely tendered refuse ! No ! I'll 

To think of the sorrow, suspense, grief, that he'« 

O^t unconsciously caused, and remember alone 

The supreme happiness and delight I have known 

In his presence; the joy of expectancy, too, 

And fond recollection. For 'tis indeed true, 

Though to anticipation I've given full rein 

When thinking to see him, my hopes ne'er were vaia* 

But the realization was far in advance 

Of all I had fancied. Though followed by blank 

Disappointment, extravagant hopes e'er have been 

In all other matters, but never with him. 

On our interviews, brief and infrequent, in fact, 

With not one regret, e'en, I now can look back. 

All has been perfect harmony, truth, tenderness, 

And how much I have lived, I can never express. 

In the few fleeting hours we together have passed. 

Yea/rs, I might say, for their recollection will last. 

Will cling to and bless me for long months and yeonii 

A.nd give to my sad heart much brightness and cheer, 

Replacing with pleasure the darkness and gloom. 



So the pictures that hang on the walls of the 
Dedicated exclusively unto my love 
In the castle of memory, cheery above 
All the others, the most sacred chamber, indeed^ 
Of my heart, shall all brightness and loveliness be ; 



STOLEN WATEBS. 301 

^iui the richest aad softest hues all shall be tinged. 

With lustre most sweet and pure all gKttering, 

With the cord of eternal remembrance all hung, 

By the hand of undying love, fond affection. 

They shall be scenes of hope all fulfilled, friendship \x\Jb ^ 

Of scrupulous honor, sincerity too, 

Temptations resisted, and faith tried and proved, 

Confidence ne'er betrayed, and love, constant and quit© 

Involuntary and enduring. The light 

Shed by stars of esteem, true respect, and regard 

Shining over the whole, added charm to impart 

To the pictures so fascinating in themselves. 

Which must ever be dearer to me than aught else. 

" ' Tie sweet to remember I I would not forego 

The charm which the past o'er the present can throw," 

And so I will not put him out of my heart, 

And my heart and life's journal. I'll try — although hard 

Is the lesson to learn — him to never regret ; 

But my life's sweetest dream I must fail to forget 

Long as being endures — the bright dream, that to one 

Of my temperament only once ever comes, 

" The sole love that life gave to me." It is true 

** There are loves in some lives for which time can renew 

All that time may destroy. Lives there are in love, too, 

Which cling to one faith, and die with it, nor move 

Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine I" aid sutl 

love 
I have given to him I If I would, I cannot 
Forget him. My journal would be, too, without 
Interest to me, should his dear name cease to fivd 
4 place in its pages. If I through all time 



506 BIOLEN WATERS. 

81iut him out of my life, shall I also deny 
Him a place in my heart, and heart-record ? Shall I^ 
When he said he would never forget me^ do less 
rhan remember him, too ? 

Much surprised, I confen 
I was, some days since, when in town on Broadway 

To meet Mrs. , his wife. I had not, till that day, 

for years seen her ; and then I should not, I dare say, 

Have noticed hcjr, had she not given a glance 

Of recognition unmistakable, as 

We passed. She was looking indeed very nice ! 

Of course that little incident did not suffice 

To make me any happier. Only brought back 

Old times with more force, and made me very sad. 

Last Sabbath, in church, when I found the first hymAi 
" June 12th, '64," was traced on the margin. 
How strongly that also the past did recall 1 
And the day when 'twas written, more plainly than all : 
Sitting there, in that beautiful church, on that bright 
Lovely morning in June, Mr. S. in his quiet 
Deep voice the words reading — above me the face 
Ever iear, dearly loved even theix— all the place 
Husned to silence, unbroken except by the low 
Thrilling tones of the reader ; then softly and slow 
His voice sang the beautiful words, and made them 
Sweeter far than before. It all came back again, 
As the words so familiar now fell on my ear, 
While my eyes slowly filled with such saa, bitter tears. 
I have not, \mtil then, been at church since that time 
When that hymn has been suug. And now, when I i 
trying 



STOLEN WATERS. 307 

To forget, in a measure, all this, comes to tAtrnt me 

With " bliss that's remeiabered." How he and his hauat 

me ! 
Fate seems to forbid my forgetting. Far more 
Do I love liim than ever I have done before. 
Now I know that to me he forever is lost. 
The preacher that day said, when any one waa 
Peculiarly tried, or had any great grief. 
They might be assured there was some glad relief, 
Bome great blessing in store for them; as tried and prcv«J 
Was an article ere it was ready for use. 
It comforted me very much. And as I 
Have, God knows ! been of late indeed fearfully tried, 
It may be that something's still waiting for me. 
To make up for the pain I've endured recently, 
I hope so, and that it may come speedily. 

To-night, at the time he came one week ago, 
I of course thought of him, as I have done also 
Through to-day, and in fact every day ; but this eve 
My dear Nettie was in, and it passed, I beKeve, 
For a very few moments, quite out of my mind, 
'Till I looked at my watch, found 'twas just half-past nine^ 
The hour of our parting ! At that very time. 
Only one week ago, on my lips he^d just pressed 
His kiss of farewell — his last lingering caress, 
The sweetest that man to a woman e'er gave I 
And my heart and my pulses stopped beating, as wave 
After wave of remembrance rolled over my soul, 
Recalling of that bitter evening, the whole. 
Stood still with grief, pain, and unboundec' regret. 
•* ^Twu «ad that our parting should be t " 8&d but ret 



508 STOLEN WATEBB. 

Inevitable. Aud perhaps better then 
llian later. It must have come some time, and 'when 
Less than now should I love him ? for each added year, 
Could but have made him to my heart still more dear, 
Jk-iid the parting yet harder to bear. The last week 
UaB, God knows, been to me a most sad one, indeed I 
I have lived through it, though, as I must do all those 
Yet to come. Oh, how many before life shall close ! 
I am yet, oh, so yoimg ! Life to me looks so long I 
Twenty-two, and its brightness and beauty all gone I 



August 2(f, 1868. 

Almost a year, since I have opened this book I 
And how has it passed ? One would think but to look 
At my external life, that 'twas calm and serene, 
Would not deem I was mourning a bright, broken dream. 
Very quiet indeed, Las my outward life seemed, 
And as to my true life, that hidden within 
The depths of my heart, that's diversified been. 
Some days have been very unhappy. Days when 
The winds and the waves my frail barque have o'erwhelme^ 
When I found it impossible quite, to suppress 
The sad, intense longing for one dear caress 
From the lips lo~ed so well ; for his presence, a sight 
Of the one dear, dear face, which would bring joy and light 
To my poor, aching heart ; for a touch of his warm, 
Loving hand, and the clasp of his strong, tender aruL 
When some slight trifling thing would bring all back agais 
With such force to my mind, it would seem to me then 



STOLEN WATERS, 809 

rhat I never could bear it. And yet, I believe 

That the days which are saddest are those that succeed 

To a night when my dreams have all been of him. Night* 

That came but too oft — dreams which but tantalized. 

! C0*dd thouglits of him in some measure control ; 

But over my dreams I had none ; and my soul 

They have made very sad, many times. Not a day 

In this long, weary year, now, thank God ! passed away, 

But I've thought of him much. Not a night, but my last 

Thought and prayer was for him. How has he the yeai 



Oh, would that I knew ! Yet the burden I've borne 
Philosophically on the whole, and have knovm 
Some pleasant if no happy hours, e'en in this 
Most desolate year, dreary as my life is. 

To the " old church " last Sabbath a visit I paid ; 
But I did not see there the one dear, handsome face 
Whose eyes used to meet mine so kindly. The place 
And service, without him, were quite incomplete ; 
And I'd only the pleasure of retrospect sweet, 
To compensate me for the lost charm. 

August seems 
A fatal month to me ; and what will this bring ? 
From Colonel Allair I'm expecting this week 
A visit. It long has been talked of, indeed, 
And now the time seems to have come. I am much 
Anticipating from his stay, and I trust 
We may with each other some pleasant hours spend. 
Oh, would 'twas my da/rling instead of mj friend I 
Mj " other Jolin " ! Were that the case, though, J fmt 
I should not so tranquilly write of it here. 



310 iSTOhBN WATEB8. 

But that nevei , oh, never can be 1 One more ye«i 

Of my life is now gone. One year nearer are we 

To the meeting eternal. How joyful 'twill be I 

IVe been reading a book about heaven, of late, 

A beautiful thing, too I And as it portrayed 

The reunion of friends, it occurred to me then, 

Thotigh I oft thiuk of meeting my love there, to spenil 

A happy eternity with him, the thought 

That we may be in separate places has not 

Ever entered my soul. And when that suggests it, 

Does my mind for one moment a place there permit 

The thought to retain ? No ; with all of my heart 

I believe, that as here we are kept far apart, 

There we shall be united in all the sweet bonds 

Of friendship and love — love perfected and fond. 

I trust it to Jesus who died for us both 1 

And it is very sweet unto Sim all to owe, 

And feel He's not only the power, but wish, 

This loved one of mine to bring safe into His 

Precious fold. And I pray God, through Him, that if noni 

Of my morning and evening petitions shall come 

To His ear, and find gracious acceptance, save one. 

That my prayer for my love, from a fiill, penitent. 

And sometimes aching heart, may like fragrant incense 

Ascend even unto the foot of the Throne, 

And an answer in blessiugs on him shower down. 

God sees not as man sees ! And Christ, who has borne 

Our weak human nature, o-ir weakness has known ; 

He uses mysterious means to work out 

His designs, and bring his wise purpose about. 

And may I not hope that what all the worl^ might 

Think a serious error, at least, if not quite 



STOLEN WATERS. 311 

A crime, may the means be of bringing to Chrurt 
One wandering lamb ? Oh ! how happy and glad 
TwouM make me, to think that my influence liacl| 
Cndei God, been the means of directing the feet 
Of one so beloved into paths that shall lead 
To the gates of the city eternal. God keep 
My darling through all of Kfe's wild, stormy blasts^ 
And bring us together with Him, safe at last I 



August 16«A, 1868. 

SUNDAY. 

Since I last wrote the Colonel has been here, and ^ac, 

And I on my lips wear his troth-kiss, and on 

My finger his ring ! Am I happy in this 

New relation ? I scarcely can tell, I confess I 

I like him very much, very much indeed 1 More, 

I think, than I have any one heretofore, 

Exceptiug my love of the sweet olden time ; 

And I do not know as that passion of mine 

Interferes in the least with the strong, warm regard 

Which I now have for John. The place held in my lieaH 

By my old love 's peculiar and sacred to him ; 

No other can ever approach it. Within 

That chamber no footsteps may enter. The door 

Is fast, and my love holds the key. Nevermore 

Shall it open, 'till life's joys and sorrows are o'er. 

And yet, my attachment to John is, I think, 

Stxong enough to make me unto hitn e^erjthinf 



312 STOLEN WATBB& 

That he may desire ; and he feels it is bo. 

Our engagement is only conditional, though^ 

Ajid if either should think, in the future, 'twould \m 

Best it should not be consummated, why we 

Are to make it known instantly. 

He was with me 
Scarcely more than a week. The first few days passed oa 
Quite fleetly to us, in reviewing our long 
Correspondence so pleasant. But one day, he'd been 
In town since the morning, and, waiting for him. 
Just at twilight, was down in the parlors, and leaning 
My head on the mantel-piece, stood idly dreaming 
Of what — I indeed scarcely know ; but I must 
In my reverie have been absorbed very much, 
For I heard not his ring, nor his step in the hall, 
Nor the opening door — in fact, was not at all 
Aware of his presence, until some one's arms 
Were around me with passionate pressure and warm. 
And my head to a manly breast gently was drawn. 
Too surprised to be very indignant, I raised 
My eyes, and o'er me there was bending a face, 
With a look in it only one passion can trace. 
I said nothing, but would have withdrawn from his cksp^ 
But he held me the closer, his heart throbbing fast 
'Neath my cheek, which was resting against it, and said^ 
" This, dear, is the best place for yoiir yvea,ry head I ** 
Then rapidly, eloquently, he went on 
To tell me how dear to him I had been long ; 
How sad would his life be without me ; how strong 
His desire was to shield me from all of the stonufl 
Of life, wliich had hitherto visited me 
With such roughness ; how kind, and bow fcendar be*d ba 



STOLEN WATERS. 813 

And looking up into his true, honest eyes, 

I felt that in his hands my happiness I 

Conld give, and the trust would be never betrayed ; 

Ajttd the answer he wished for I readily gave. 

In a year he will come for me, if before then 

Neither think it were better he should not. And wh«n 

He bade me farewell, 'twas with tears of regret 

And sorrow I saw his departure. And yet, 

I thought of a parting but one year ago. 

And felt, for the first time, it could not be so — 

The conditional promise could never be kept. 

But that feeling soon passed, and I'm now quite content^ 

And think that my life with him will be, indeed, 

A tranquil and happy existence, and lead 

My heart into safe, pleasant paths. And to-night, 

I thank God for His goodness, and pray that aright 

I may use my strong influence over the man 

Whose happiness now has been placed in my hand& 



Octohm- 10«^, 1868. 

Saturday. 

Scarcely two months have sped, and already do I 
Beneath my bonds chafe. My heart already cries, 
That it never can be ! and beside me there lies 
A letter, signed, sealed, whose contents shall dissolve 
The engagement on which we so lately resolved ; 
And I wonder, now, how I could ever have felt 
That / could the marriage vows take on myself 
14 



314 STOLEN WATEBB, 

And promise to love any other but Kvm 
Wlio must still be my dearest, as ever he's been. 
For John I've indeed the most sincere and true 
Attachment, and know well that he lo res me, tott, 
And yet, my heart shrinks from the intimacy 
Of married life, even with him. And think he 
WUl feel, as I do, 'tis but justice and kindness, 
Thus early to sever the ties which now bind us, 
I suppose my decision will give him much pain, 
And so it does me ; for I, too, hoped, in vain. 
Together, a bright, happy future to spend. 
And it hurts me, indeed, to cause grief to my friend | 
Yet, I feel that it will be as nothing compared 
To a life-time of sorrow, the grief and despair 
Of within his arms holding a cold, loveless wife ; 
That the promise, if kept, could but make us for life 
Both wi'etched, indeed! For one face ever must 
Between us have come, and thus, marring for us 
All happiness, rendered our fancied bliss naught 
But a mockery. FeeUng thus, I, of course, thought 
It but right to tell him without further delay ; 
And therefore I wrote him a letter to-day. 

'Tis best so ! Not sufficiently large is my heart 
To contain more than one love ; for every part 
Is filled to o'erflowing with that. I feel, too. 
That 'tis sweeter, far sweeter to love him, my true. 
Only love, \vdth no hope of again seeing him 
NVliile life lasts, with no thought of there ever being 
Between us one sweet, tender tie, than to be 
W^frshipped by any other. The memory to ma^ 



STOLEN WATRU8. 31ft 

Of his love, is far more than the most warm, heartfelt. 

Passionate adoration of any one else. 

With such feelings, I can't wrong a friend that's lo deaTi 

By a ruined heart giving to him, or a mere 

Pretence of affection. So sorry am I, 

So sorry, that he should have ever a tie 

Between us more close than warm friendship besought 

Or desired ; and so sorry, too, that I should not 

Seen at first that his hopes could be ne'er realized. 

Still, I trust that his love not so deeply does lie, 

That it is not so lasting and strong as he thinks ; 

That, before many years their swift flight shall have winged 

He will find one more worthy of such a dear, kind 

Companion as he would be ; who, through all time, 

Every craving shall satisfy of his true, warm. 

Loving heart. And who shall not alone fill his arms. 

But his mind and his soul. 

Thus once more I become 
All my love's, with no thought but for him — my dear one ! 



December ISth, 1868. 

FRIDAY. 

'TIS with saddest of sad hearts I sit down to write 
A few words in my journal's still pages to-night. 
Buch sorrowful news as to-day I've received I 
IThis morning a paper was handed to me. 
Addressed in my love's well-known hand. Oh, heir lomff 
It had been since I'd seen it before I What a strong 



316 STOLEN WATBB& 

rhriil fluttered my pulse as I recognized it! 

Was so happy and glad about it, I admit 

That I never once thought it was strange he sLould break 

In that manner our long, cruel silence. With haste 

I tore oflf the wrapper, and looked, but in vain, 

For a written word which should the sending explain. 

But when carelessly glancing its columns adown, 

I observed a marked paragraph, which I soon found 

A notice to be of the death of his wife. 

I scarcely more shocked have been, in my whole life I 

How my heart aches for him ! How it has ached all day 

How grief stricken he must be I Oh, would in some way 

J could give to him comfort. His dear children, too— 

flis sweet little Bertie ! Oh, what will he do 

Without his own loving mamma. 'Tis, indeed, 

Very hard for them all. And it makes my heart bleed. 

When I think of how lonely they must be to-night. 

God, I pray, cheer their sad hearts ! 

Of fever she died. 
After scarce a week's illness. I can't realize 
It were possible that her fair face should lie now, 
White and still, 'neath the snows of December. Oh, how 
Can he bear it ? — ^my darling I 'Tis sad, oh, so sad — 
This most bitter trial he ever has had. 

1 wrote him this evening a few lines of deep, 
Heartfelt sympathy ; feeling I never could sleep 
Until I had told him how truly I grieved 
At his sorrow. And wrote, with the earnest belief 
It was right that I should. Jesus pity and bless, 
And to his troubled spirit send cheer and sweet reiAl 



8T0L£N WATEB8, 817 

December 3Uty 1868. 

THUESDAY. 

Tk<t l»8t da/ of the year I I have been lookicg o'« 
The journal I've kept for six long years, or more ; 
And I could not help thinking that, were I to read 
The Bame in a book, I should think it, indeed, 
Over-drawn, and extravagant, too. Yet, God knowe 
That I felt every word from beginning to close. 
Felt bitterly, sweetly, the fullest extent 
Of what was expressed. And a nature intense 
As mine is, could scarcely feel less, influenced 
By the same circumstances, I'm sure ! As I knei» 
Twould be no criticism subjected unto 
More severe than my own, I have freely expressed 
All my heart's bliss and pain, happiness and unrest. 

The old year is dying . The moments speed fast ! 
Am they vanish away among things of the past. 
My thoughts backward roll to one bright afternoon. 
Just five years ago — five long years! yet how soon 
Have they slipped from beneath our oft-falteriug feetr — 
When my heart the first time wildly throbbed 'ceatb 'tk% 

cheek 
Of one who's become since so dear ; when my lips 
Felt the pressure of his in his first tender kiss, 
And I eagerly tasted the first drops of bliss, 
la the goblet of love wJiich his ready hand raised 
To nr parched, thirsty lips. Oh, how sweet was the tMtel 



«l^ STOLEN WATERH. 

Happy llnui ill Iho prcHont, 80 happy to see 

TliuL 1 filled Jill his thoughtH for tho moment, that b* 

WuH all I liad deemed hiui — a gentleman true. 

Not thinking, or caring indeed, then, this new, 

Sweet feeling to analyze, recklena of what 

The future might bring foith — in fact, with no thought 

That moment beyond, and deliriouH, too. 

With tlie joy of hia pnjsence, the glad momenta flow 

But too Hwiftly, and brought our first parting. And th«« 

Succeeded lli(5 eve'n dreamy retros[)ect, when 

I sat with my hand o'er my eyes tightly pressed. 

Recalling with ])leasure each offered caress. 

With nipturouH ihrill eyery word of tho man 

Who, in LruLli, (svcii ilien, held my heart in his hand. 

And nobly has ho used the power possessed. 

True, indeed, has he Ixsen to liis trust. Kindest, bent, 

Most, generous ever. What wonder, above 

All others, I honor, admire him, and love ! 

What wonder that I joyous mention should make 

Of each of these glad anniversaiy days. 

As tho untiring wheels of time roll them along? 

Wliat wonder that sweet i-ceoUection, with strong. 

Fond emotion, should linger arouiwl them, each year 

liuL rendering iliem indee<l Jill ih(5 more dear? 

Uh, blessed bo memory I " There is no time 

Like the old time, no love like the old love." I find, 

In the whole of my world, not a man who ia like 

t/ftto my love I God bh^ss aad preserve him ta-nifkll 



STOLEN WATERS. WB 

December 31»^ 1869. 

FRIDAY. 

** Tlie day of all days " to me, my wedding day / 
{ t is now six p.m. ; in two hours I shall say, 
GkxL "vdlling, the words that forever will bind 
Me to Jdrrij my heart's idol, for such a long time, 
SIj own love and darling! And sitting here, clad 
n my pure bridal robes, I am making the glad, 
Last record in my little journal, which has 
Been a brief one, indeed ; for since it was commenced 
IVe no heart had for writing. But this blissful end 
Compensates for all of the pain gone before. 

'Tis a night of deep beauty ! I look without, o*ei 
My shoulder, and see the full moon, large and bright, 
Shining calm and serene from the far East ; while light, 
Fleecy clouds hover near it and o'er it ; but do 
Not its brilliance obscure. But a dark one's there, too ; 
bailing near, and yet nearer ; and if that should flit 
3ver, will it not hide with completeness all its 
iiatchless beauty and brilliance ? With interest deep 
I watch it move slowly along ; now it sweeps 
Over every part; but the radiance stil2 
Escapes, and the ether surrounding it gilds. 
In the cloud there are rifts, too, through which J its ndn^ 
Silvery beauty still see. Now it rises, with grand, 
Imperial triumph, above the dark and 
Biost en-iious clouds shining forth once again, 
With its lustre undimmed, and its beauty unchanged. 



320 STOLEN WATSm, 

1 turn from that picture, and look withiit I There 
I find perfect happiness ! And, though aware 
That it by passing clouds may, and must be, indeed. 
Temporarily dimmed, yet I trust there may be 
Bifts, through which I may still its bright radiance aeei 
That they will soon pass, and its brilliancy leare 
Untarnished, unchanged 1 

This is my " Pboloous ** brie( 
To what IVe to write. 

Just one week since, to-night, 
In the parlor I sat in the gathering twilight. 
Idly rocking and dreaming, with cheek in my hand, 
Of present and past, when the bell loudly rang 
My position I still did not change, till the door 
Was thrown wide, and a gentleman, crossing the floor, 
Paused by me. I looked up, and with raptu ous joy 
Recognized at one glance my own love ! my dear boy, 
Who for more than two years I have never once seen. 
Oh, how glad was my heart ! How entire and supreme 
The delight with which once more I felt his dear arm 
Around me, his kiss on my lips, long and warm I 
And how happy was he to again hold me thus I 
Oh, that moment alone quite coi^pensated us 
For the anguish of parting, the longing, and grief 
Of the past two sad years. Neither of us could speak 
For a while ; then he drew me with him to a seat, 
And as we sat down side by side, he to me 
Said tenderly, softly, and how wistfully — 
" I have come for you, dear, and I wai.t you at ^nce^ 
Blntirely, forever ! And nothing more must 
Ever separate us. And no longer can I 
liye apart from you ; every day want you in mjr 



tilVLEN WATERS, 381 

No^ desolate home, every hour in my hean.. 
you are all mine ! my darling, my wife, are you not? ^ 
I against the dear hand which I held laid my cheek, 
Ad d looked up the dear eyes true and loving to meet, 
Ajid the anawer he wished in my face let him read. 
No words were required ; for too long had he known 
That my heart's every fibre for him throbbed alone., 
And as his lips met mine in the lingering kiss 
Of betrothal, I thought that no other caress 
Was ever so sweet. 

Then he went on to tell, 
As the darkening shades swiftly gathered and fell^ 
All that I'd for so long from his lips wished to hear. 
How much and how dearly he'd loved me for years ; 
How it had sometimes almost overcome him ; 
P! jw hard to repress words of love it had been, 
Wlien they trembled on his yerj lips ; how with pain 
He'd allowed many letters of miae to remain 
Unanswered, from feeling he never could trust 
Himself to reply ; and how bowed to the dust 
He was at our last bitter parting. 

How great, 
And exceeding the joy which all this to me gave I 
And to Him who bestows upon us all good gifts. 
How thankful I felt that such full, perfect bUss, 
Was at length me acco-ded — my most ardent wiah 
For long years, and the very desire of my heart. 
And not what I wished for alone. He imparts — 
The boon of his love — but He grants me, beside, 
What I never dared think of, the privilege, rights 
The remainder of life with my dear one to spend. 
14* 



32iJ STOLEN WA/^Em. 

Th^t was one week ago ! £very evoning since thflib 
He's been with me ; and we re to be married to-odghi 1 
He thought we had been kept apart too long, quite, 
To delay any more, and would give me but one 
More brief week of freedom. Nor did I, I own, 
Desire it. These chains are of silk, do not fret, 
And bondage to him is, I think, sweeter yet 
Thau the most entire liberty. 

What a Boft light 
Filled his eyes all the eve I And my thoughts then 

flight 
To those beautiful Sabbaths six years ago, when 
V7e both sat in church, and he down to me sent 
Sucii sweot, thrilling glances — like, but not the same. 
And he loves me ! My heart the sweet music agnin 
And again doth repeat. I am his, he is mine, 
ilis heart warmly beats for me, mine through all timr 
Throbs for him truly, tenderly. Friends here we are, 
Friends we shall be in heaven ; loving here, lo\ing f&x 
tlirough the endless eternity. He will soon come 
To leave me not 'till the words making us one — '• 
As we've long been in heart — shall be spoken. That yoIm 
So exquisite 1 once more shall liear ; meet the eyes 
Whose glance is so loving and true; feel the warm, 
Thrilling clas]^ of his hund, the embrace of his arm, 
The touch so caressing of his bearded cheek, 
And the pressure of his luustached lips, as they nveet 
Uy O'WTi in the sweetest of kisses. And this 
(a not " stolen waters," but God-given bliss I 
And how can any person, who ever a kiss 
4H \o^ f has received, think of yielding their lipt 



STOLEN WATBRS. H23 

To passion's profane touch, formality's cold, 

Or friendship's indifferent pressure. I own 

/cannot. And from cmy one's kisses I shrink 

When he's left a caress on my lips. For I think 

A. kiss sacred and very expressive, and it 

Should be neither profaned nor abused. I admit 

I Uhe kisses, but not a prof asion, or those 

That are cold and indifferent. Though I suppose 

My ideas are somewhat peculiar — in fact. 

Have been told so — Fd not have them changed. And an 

glad 
He the luxury uses so rarely, indeed, 
That 'tis not rendered common. Am glad, too, that he 
Is reserved ; that he's not prodigal in professing 
Attachment to me ; is not free in expressing 
His strong, full affection. 

I love him, he me I 
I with my who^e heart, my might, mind, strength ; and k« 
As 1 vdsh to be loved. And how thankful I am. 
Every day, every hour of my life, that the man 
On whom I have lavished the first, only love 
Of which I am capable, who has above 
All others for long been enshrined in my heart'i 
Sweet " holy of holies," who, " be the days dark 
Or bright," must abide there forever, is one 
That is worthy of all ; a rare man, who's become 
More honored and trusted each time we have meti 
With whom a familiar acquaintance, instead 
Of breaking the charm, or of weakening the depth 
Of my passion 's enhanced it a thousand fold, 
Aaide every carrier, rendered it y«t 



S2^ STOLEN WATBB& 

More strong, deep, endurmg, and shown him to me 
The one love of my life — a man, manly — to be 
My own, here and hereafter. 

The name that I chose. 
When I sent my first note to him 80 long ago, 
How pertinent 'twas 1 " JSittcr-sweet I " Seems alrocMrt 
Prophetic. Impulsively chosen, no thought 
Except for the present, no glance into what 
Waa then dim futurity, no care, indeed, 
For what fruit might grow from the rashly sown seed. 
A very child was I, dependent on each 
Passing moment for happiness; joyous or grieved, 
Glad or sorry, as by influences around 
I was swayed. Not reflecting once, as to the wrong 
Or right of the step I was taking, and not 
One thought of with what results it might be fraught^ 
By tho vweet, witching glances of his soft, dark eye 
Fascinated, bewildered by the sweet, dreamy smile, 
Which not alone wreathed his lips, dimpled his cheek. 
But gave added beauty and softness to each 
Fine feature of his speaking face ; and to him. 
Looking up, as unto a superior being ; 
Listening week after week to the magic of hifl 
Lovely voice, he a spell far too strong to resist, 
Too gradual, subtle, bewilderingly sweet. 
Wove around me, which deep<^r grew each passing week« 
'Till, reckless of consequences, secure in 
My disguise, longiag passionately for something 
Tangible, in connection with him— a line traced 
By his hand, or the paper where it had been placed, 
Something, am/yihing, which was or had been his o> 
( lent my first letter, and, as has been shown, 



STOLEN WATBRa, 322 

pTG^heticali} chose as my disguise 

The Dame " fitter- SweeC^ Six long years have passed by, 

A.iid a few days ago I another one sent, 

In the same manner signed. But I wrote to him then 

As unto a stranger, unknown to him quite, 

But noM as my darling, my love, my delight ! 

What was then a dream only has long since become 

A blessed reality ; and, more than once 

I've experienced what I then longed for, the press 

Of his arm around me, of my head to his breast. 

fitter- Sweet / bitter has been indeed that note's fruit ^ 
Sweet, intensely sweet, also I The plant's language, too, 
Which I carelessly then as an emblem chose — truth — 
Has run through the whole of our lives' warp and woof, 
Since we ceased to be strangers. I have been, I feel, 
To him faithful, and he is, I know, true as steel. 
The sweet's been predominant ; and, though 'tis plair 
The bitter has also been present, it came 
At the first, as the name indicates ; and the sweet 
Followed swiftly, is thorough^ and lasting, and deep. 

Just six years to-day, since we met the first time I 
And to-night God will make me all his, him all mine. 
It is now half-past seven ! A few moments more, 
And he vill be here. And though I've lingered o'er 
This hour's pleasant task, I must leave it and haste 
To my " Epilogue." 

Love is the " Alpha " I trace, 
rhe " Omega" is joy. I've for once known the tftsta 
Of the rare, ruby wins of entire happiness / 
Somethinjr seldom attained, scarcely known when possessed 



iJ26 6T0LEN WATERS. 

fiver^ burden is lightened, each cloud is dispelled { 

Kverj' borrow is banished, all gloom is expelled, 

Bj the bright influence of the rosj contents 

Of that magic goblet. Whatever is meant 

For me in the future, I then can look back 

To these moments so joyous and glad, thinking that 

Once, at least, have my heai-t-strings been swept bj ilM 

hand 
Of ^rue happiness ; and strains of music, both grand 
And sweet, his magnetic touch followed. Soft strsuiui 
Which vibrated and echoed, until they became 
All lost in my joy's deep immensity. 

Then, 
" What matters some sorrow, if blissful 's the end? ** 

The voice of my love ! and I think, as with fleet, 
Eager footsteps, I hasten my dear one to meet, 
Chftt •* the bitter all past, far more welcome 's the 



G. W. BILLING II A APS PUB LLC A TIONS. 



Miscellaneous Works. 



Out of India— Rudyard Kipling.. $i 50 
The King of Alberia— Py L. D.. i 50 
Fort Reno— By Mrs. D. B. Dyer., i 00 

Lady Olivia— By Col. Falkner i 00 

White Rose cf Memphis Do... 100 
Red Rose of Savannah — A. S. M i 00 
jThe Pink Rose of Mexico. Do. 1 00 
jYellow Rose of New Orleans. " i 00 

It's a V^ay Love Has 25 

iZarailla— By Beulah 50 

Florine 50 

SmartSayingsof Children— Paul i 00 

Crazy History of the U. S 50 

Rocks and Shoals— Swisher 50 

The Wages of Sin 50 

Idwymon — By Fred'kA. Randle. . 1 50 
The Disagreeable Man~A.S.M. 75 
OurArtistin Spain, etc. — Carleton 1 00 
Dawn to Noon— By Violet Fane, i 50 
Constance's Fate. Do - i 50 

Missing Chord— Lucy Dillingham i 25 

Ronbar — By R. S. Dement i 50 

A Manless World — Yourell 75 

Journey to Mars— Pope 150 

The Dissolution — Dandelyon i 00 

Lion Jack— By P. T. Bamum i 50 

Jack in the Jungle. Do 150 

Dick Broadhead. Do 150 

Red Birds Christmas Story,Holme$ i 00 

Flashes from "Ouida"..... 125 

Private LettersofaFrench Woman 75 
Passion's Dream—W.BoydSample 75 
The Arrows of Lo ve— L.Daintrey 75 

Eighty-Seven Kisses — By? 75 

Treasury of Knowledge 100 

Mrs. Spriggins — Widow Bedott... 25 
Phemie Frost — Ann S. Stephens.. 1 50 
Disagreeable W^oman— Starr . ... 75 
The Story of a Day in London. < 25 
Lone Ranch— By MayneReid.... 150 
The Train Boy — Horatio Alger. . . 1 25 

Dan, The Detective— Alger i 25 

Death Blow to Spiritualism 50 

The Sale of Mrs. Adral— Costello 50 
The New Adam and Ev«— Todd. 50 
Bottci* Facts in Spiritualism., z 50 
The MysteryofCentralPark— Bly 50 
Debatable Land— R. Dale Owen, a 00 
Threading My Way. Do. . x 50 
Princess Nourmahal — Geo. Sand i 50 

Galgano's "Wooing — Stebbins i 25 

Stories about Doctors— Jeffreson i 50 
Stories about Lawyers. Do. i 50 

Doctor Antonio — By Ruffini i 50 

iBeatrice Cenci— From the Italian, i 50 

jThe Story of Mary i 50 

{Madame— By Frank Lee Benedict i 50 
|A Late Remorse. Do. x 50 

jHammer and Anvil. Do. 1 jo 

•Her Friend Laurenceo Do. z 50 

L'Assommoir — Zola's great novel, i 00 



Mignonnette — By Sangr6e $1 < 

Jessica— By Mrs. W. H.White i 1 

Women of To-day. Do i^ 

The Baroness — Joaquin Miller... j \ 
One Fair W^oman. Do. ... i ' 
The Burnhams—Mrs.G. E.Stewart 2 \ 
Eugene Ridgewood— Paul James i 
Braxton's Bar — R. M. Daggett... i 
Miss Beck— By Tilbury Holt... . i 

A W^ay ward Life i , 

Winning Winds — Emerson i 

The Fallen Pillar Saint— Best... i 

An Errand Girl— Johnson i 

Ask Her, Man! Ask Her! i 

Hidden Power— T.H.Tibbies.... i 
Parson Thome— E.M. Buckingham •; 

Errors — By Ruth Carter i 

The Abbess of Jouarre — Renan.. i 
Bulwer's Letters to Kis W^ife.. 2 
Sense — A serious book. Pomeroy. 1 

Gold Dust Do. I 

Our Saturday Nights.. Do. i 
Nonsense — A comic book Do. i 
Brick Dust. Do. Do. i 

Home Harmonies Do. i 

Vesta Vane— By L. Kixig, R i 

Kimball's Novels — 6 vols. PerVol. 1 

Warwick — M. T.Walworth i 

Hotspur. Do. I 

Lulu. Do. I 

Stormcliff. Do. i 

Delaplaine. Do. i 

Beverly, Do. ...... i 

Zahara. Do. i 

The Darling of an Empire i 

Clip Her Wing, or Let Her Soar i 

Nina's Peril — By Mrs. Miller i 

Marguerite's Journal — t or Girls, i 
Orpheus C. Kerr — Four vols, in one 2 
Perfect Gentleman — Lockwood... i 
Purple and Fine Linen — Fawcett i 
Pauline's Trial— L.D. Courtney., i 

Tancredi— Dr. E.A.Wood i 

Measure for Measure— Stanley., i 

A Marvelous Coincidence 

Two Men of the World— Bates. 

A God of Gotham — Bascom 

Congressman John— MacCarthy 

So Runs the World Away 

Birds of a Feather— Sothern i 

Every Man His Own Doctor 2 

Professional Criminals — Byrnes. 5 
Heart Hungry. Mrs. Westmoreland i 
Clifford Troupe. Do. 

Price of a Life—R. F. Sturgis. . . . i 

Marston Hall— L. Ella Byrd i 

Conquered — By a New Author i 

Tales from the Popular Operas i 

The Fall of Kilman Kon 1 

San Miniato— Mrs. C.V. Hamilton 
All for Her— A Tale of New York, i 



Mrs. Mary J. HOLMES' Works. 



TEMPEUT AND rtUNSIIINE. I DARKNEHH ANJ) DAYLIGHT. 

JON(il.lHII Olil'lIANS. HUdU VVOm'J 1 1 Nf J'J'ON. 

11<>M1<:,S1'10AJ> ON lIlLLSrJE. CAMERON J'KIOJJ. 

T.IONA lilVJOllH. 
MIOADOW JUiOOK. 
DOHA DIOANIO. 
(Oils IN MAlIi>E. 
MAIM AN (ililOV. 

!';i)ri'ii r.vr.io. 

DAISY TIIOIiNTON. 

CIIATIOAII D'OJt. 

(/I J 1:1: Nil: IIIOTIIERTON. 

i!l';SSllO'H FORTUNE. 

JMAROUERITE. 

DR. HATHERN'S DAUGHTERS. (New.) 



ROHE J\lATH!;i:. 

ETJIELYN'S MlbTAKE. 

MIT/MiANK. 

EDNA JiROWNlNG. 

WEST EAWN. 

MILDRED. 

EOlilOST HOUSE. 

MADEIJNE. 

CI I R I ST M A S STORIES. 

GRETCHEN. 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

" MrH. IT0I111C8' Htoiii'H aio univorHiilly road. Ilor adinirers are Tiumber- 
l<iMH. Sh(i in ill iiiiuiy nvsiKHitH vvilhoiit ii- rivul in tlio world ol' tlctioii. Hor 
oliiir.'icliirH iiHi iilwiiys lil'(;-lik(s, and hIio inaUcH Dumii hulk and act iiko luuiian 
JKUii-H, .subject to tlio Hiiiiu) (UMolions, Hwayod by tLe same pasHionn, and 
acl.nulc.d by the sanio nioiivc^s which arc common anjon^' men and women 
of cvcry-day cxislencc. Mrs. UoluiCH i« very bai)i)v in i)ortra3 inj^ domestic 
lilc. Old and youn^ pcru.sc her HlorioH with great delight, for 8hc writes iu 
a Htylo that all can coniprehcud."— A'tw lork Weekly. 

TIIIC NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW, vol. 81, page 557, says of Mrs 
Mary .T. HolniiiH' novel '* Engli.sh Orphans " :— " Wivh this novel of Mrs 
Holm(!M' w(!i have been charmed, and so ha\ e a pretty jninMMons circle of 
(liHciiiiiiiiating rcadcns to whom wo have lent it. The cliaracfcM izalion is 
exquisite, (inpecially ho far as concerns rural and village life, of which 
there are some pictur(^s that disHorvo (o ])o hnng np in perpel nal memory of 
tyiKiS of hiimanilA^ fast ))e('oming extinct. The dialogues are generally 
brief, pointed, an(l api)ropriatc. The plot seems simple, so easily and nat- 
urally is it developed aiul consummated. Moreover, the story linis grace- 
fully constriicfed and wiitten, inculcates without obtruding, not only pnro 
Cliristian morality in geiKMal, but, with especial point and powei-, the 
deiKindonco of true success on character, and of true respectability on 
nioril." 

"Mrs. Holmes' stories are all of a domestic character, and their interest, 
tluuHd'ons Ih not so intense as if tlu^y were more highly seasoned with sen- 
sationaJism, but it is of a healthy and abiding character. Tlu^ inlj^rest in 
lier tahis begins at once, and is maintained to the close. Her senlinu-nts 
are so Honnd, her symi)alhi('S so warm and leady, and lier knowledge of 
mannoi'S, character, and the vai'iod incidents of ordinary life is so thonmgh, 
that she would find it dillicult to write any other thaii an excellent tale if 
she wore to try it."— Boston Banner. 



I'^Tho ■♦nlumos are all handsomely printed and bound iu cloth, sold 
jvery where, and sent by mail, 2>ostage free, on receipt of pric(i [.i<1.50 each]. 



*& 



G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher, 

33 WEST 23d STREET, NEW YORK. 



